


[untitled]

by AKnightOfAGoodKing



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Cheating, Corruption AU, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Ten Years Later, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKnightOfAGoodKing/pseuds/AKnightOfAGoodKing
Summary: (I don't- I don't know. Thank you for reading?)





	[untitled]

**Author's Note:**

> **[DO NOT REPOST/REUSE MY WORK(S) WITHOUT MY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PERMISSION]**

He hadn't seen Gregory since graduation, nor did he keep in contact. But, for some reason, that blond was the first person Christophe went back to, the only person left the Frenchman would ever care for a second time. Christophe would ask himself why he went back to the bitch of an Englishman after all these years, but he knew he’d never rid himself of that man as he walked his way up at high class studio apartment complex on the 23rd floor in New York City at 03:34 a.m., December 2nd.

It was just after his last job. Christophe, since leaving his hometown of South Park without a farewell to anyone, was a hit for hire, a mercenary traveling from country to country to accept any request as long as someone had the money. Whoever was willing to pay more was the next on the priority list, and Christophe, grown out of that young and innocent ideology of only doing what was right, only felt numb when he pulled the trigger, strangled the life out of someone, buried them six feet under before their time.

Ten years of this kind of career made Christophe’s shorter than average stature lean and tough. His body was chiseled like a Spartan warrior, his hair and eyes brown like dirt. He still had those wrinkles around his eyes, smoking still a bad habit with the occasional drink now and then. He continued to wear his signature camouflage pants and dark tank top, his shovel always with him whether on him or not too far if needed. He became infamous in three years, achieving a record of 121 confirmed kills all credited to him in the years to come, and the underworld knew him only by his original code name, _Le Mole._ It was never easy to find the Mole yet never too hard to hire him, and that was just the way Christophe liked it. (Though, for a short period, he disappeared from the call lists.)

But if there was one thing life was, it was be an entourage of unexpected guests that ruined the party every now and again, sometimes in small ways but most definitely in big ways. That was why he had a last request instead of just dying for one. No, instead, someone thought it would be a fun idea to take him out with a trick: hire and bait him, and then kill him. It worked, sort of. No, not really.

You see, Christophe was smart, but most importantly, he was _lucky,_  lucky that he noticed all the inconsistencies in the political and social background and rift concerning the situation and recognized the warning in his guts. Something was wrong, and it was time to leave. An day before the meetup time, Christophe took everything he had out of his Swiss bank and, using his alias at the time, bought five international tickets from Ukraine to Los Angeles, Beijing, Kiev, Tokyo and Sydney. Then he sailed himself back to the States on the West Coast, drove several stolen vehicles all the way back to South Park and buried everything that mattered in one night five feet into the snow hard ground. He watched this mother sleep for a few hours, slipping away without a word. 

The next day, Christophe started walking towards the East Coast, taking up the offer for rides by kind or intrigued strangers here and there. And then he finally reached New York City, recalling the exact address he had memorized for the last four years, and rode through the subway system. And when he arrived on the highest floor, Christophe was exhausted, though his demeanor didn’t show it. His expression was hard, rather, so as if he had just woken up extra grumpy too early in the morning.

He pressed the doorbell, and there was some soft shuffling that could be heard from behind the door, another door opening and hurried footsteps. The door opened, a dimming light in the background. “Long time no see,” Christophe said, his eyes hard on the other.

“Christophe,” Gregory said, his accent lighter than before but still notable.

“I need a place to stay,” Christophe continued, hands in the pocket of his jacket. “I'll pay you whatever you want. You can take whatever you want.”

He chose those words carefully, already knowing what Gregory wanted from him, and he made no sound or sign of protest when a hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into the studio apartment, tugging him almost harshly into the bathroom and shoving him into the shower.

It was his first shower in almost two weeks, and the warm rushing of water was both soothing and shocking, his body yearning to relax but instead slammed against the hard wall of the shower by a taller weight whose lips were kissing him with such a feverishly desire that makes the warm water cold in comparison. Christophe let Gregory do as the blond pleased, nearly suffocating him with a seemingly never ending kiss as slightly larger yet softer hands tore off his dirty clothes, trown hazardously onto the shower floor. Christophe hung on for his life, his own hands gripping onto a wetly clothed back as those hands touched him, caressing him and washing him simultaneously.

“Gregory,” Christophe forced out, finally breaking off the kiss for a gasp of air, but the Englishman continued on, kissing butterflies on sun-scarred skin. “'urry up, you bastard. I'm tired.”

Gregory hummed, his lips pressed on Christophe's hard chest, droplets of water falling dripping down their bodies to the shower floor, firm hands gradually settling on his lover’s cock, half hard and anticipating. Christophe almost forgot the shade of green the blond’s eyes were, how the shade became darker and darker as the pupil dilated with desire and possessiveness.

Gregory was angry, Christophe could tell. He did just show up out of the blue in nearly ten years in the middle of the night, demanding for a place to stay without as much as an explanation why he was there or why he didn't call once. However, Christophe knew that wasn't why Gregory was angry. It was because he left without saying a word, without taking his lover with him.

Why did Christophe leave in the first place, though? Sometimes Christophe wasn't even sure himself. He was eighteen with a high school diploma with a physique of a training Marine and he didn't have much of value. His mother died a year before, bled out during a car accident because some fucker thought it was okay to drink and drive. Ironically, by the hands of that son of a bitch God, that fucker got to live with only a broken bone. Christophe had nothing in South Park, almost everyone he knew already planning their life careers or moving away for college, but nearly none of them, Christophe cared for. All that shit that happened while they were kids—meeting the Devil, dying, giant guinea pigs, Nazi zombies, fucking Cthulhu—was all a dream, and a bigger, more real reality settled in, the imagination of their childish minds merely a veil of actual truth, that life was a lot more sad and boring than anyone thought. 

The days before graduation was like a catalyst of that realization, the actual day the deliverance of it. All the sudden, Christophe started noticing how life was different—no more defining plots appearing out of nowhere every few days—and the people. That fatass Cartman started putting effort in all the right things and dating that class council president bitch Testaburger, getting in some nice business school. The Tweak spaz was already running his family business, engaged to Tucker who was working in an up-and-coming mechanical garage. Broflovski, that stuck up Jew, got a full ride to one of the best medical school in the state, and Marsh, on an athletic scholarship, followed him with a blindness that could only belong to those who were unknowingly struck by love. Fuck, even McCormick, poorest kid in school, was part-timing as a model in the nearest city.

And Gregory, that British bastard, was going to be a lawyer, already accepted into Yale University with a full-time internship. Christophe liked to think it was the reason why he left without a word. It wasn't like the French couldn't have done something like anyone of them. Like stated earlier, Christophe was smart, but he didn't really care. He didn't care about science or math or art or whatever you could get a degree for. He wasn't really much into working to live comfortably. That was why being a merc was the best choice he made.

Mercs, though they get paid in huge sums, lived in crap situations most of the time, putting all the effort to take out a target and survive. They had to make sure not to die, know how to get out when necessary, and plan so many details. Sometimes, it was an easy job, invading a home in the middle of the night and killing whole families. Christophe had no restrictions on targets. He once pulled the plug of some comatose woman in her own hospital bed. Sometimes, it was hard. In Dubai, he, with a small groups of others like him, took out an entire embassy, and that time, they had to find their own way out, their escape route blocked. Christophe had done some bad things, and he didn't care that he did.

A bite, and Christophe cursed in his native tongue, the one he carefully hid away for years. He was taken out from his thoughts by an attention demanding lover, who caught him by the lips again, this time softer and slower, gentler, as his hands started to pump Christophe’s cock, which incited a low, muffled moan from the Frenchman.

Gregory continued on his ministration on Christophe, quick yet still skillfully, which drove the French merc into a madness that lead to a tiny death, and his resurrection was in cold water. The surface of his skin touching the blond Englishman burned on contact, the kiss not yet breaking as hands didn't stop moving towards his lower back and lower. The water turned off, and there were many thing Christophe could recall of that night, rekindling the fire between the two of them, both pleasurable and painful.

In the last ten years, Christophe never really went out of his way to fufill carnal desire, though he did not refuse it. He accepted whoever came and went, sometimes to fill out a night and sometimes for business, and none of them a bit memorable, though he had slept with intriguing and beautiful women and men alike. Some were shy and tasting him like a bee sucking up nectar and others hungry and ravaging him like meat, but none was successful to devour him whole, to make him theirs. All he could remember were their faces, their names, and the job that he met them during. That was all.

But with Gregory, Christophe felt that—the desire to to be kept. When they were younger, close to becoming adults, they had made love with each other, both awkward and uncertain. But now, Christophe experienced and Gregory skilled, there was a noticeable improvement. Christophe was sure his heart should've stopped beating as it beat too quickly for all the oxygen in the air to travel correctly through his body, the heat that continuously burned in his lower stomach setting him on fire, and his mind going crazy with heat.

He wanted to beg so much, but he didn't. He couldn't, knowing to beat that desire to be kept down by keeping silent, biting his lower lips to muffle his moans with the incentive of pain. That was another thing Christophe could so clearly recall, the pain.

When they first made love, it was gentle, hesitant to move on without reassurance and permission. Now, it was like being fucked by a beast driven by lust under the guise of a handsome man with hair like wheat and eyes like grass, one that loved to inflicted pain until Christophe hit him in retaliation to stop or until he made fair skin bleed. Half the time, soft kisses that caressed him like a flower became harsh bites that sank teeth in too deeply, gentle touches into bruises black and blue in the morning.

It was after the third time he came that Christophe broke his silence, not to beg but to tell Gregory to stop. “No more,” the exhausted mercenary said, mouth dry and lips swollen and bleeding as Gregory continued on, still going strong with desire and stamina. “I can't— No more, Gregory.”

But Gregory didn't listen. If anything, it made him go faster, harder, deeper as he kissed Christophe, sucking on the blood from his lips. Christophe bit him in retaliation, his own hands gripping at Gregory’s forearms for dear life as he felt another climax approach him, robbing him of almost all control. Still, Christophe kept silent, taking deep and slow breaths when Gregory finally stopped. The air was freezing against his heated skin, the blood rushing through his veins, running through his body, his heart beating too loudly in his ears. The pause was lulling Christophe to sleep, exhausted and lying on a comfortable bed for the first time in weeks, warmed and sheltered, his eyes closing slowly.

He let out a groan of annoyance when familiar kips kissed him back by the neck, signalling that the night would go on. Gregory flipped their positions without a word or warning, the blond himself lying on his back as his hands sat Christophe up on his cock, not moving an inch.

“Christophe,” Gregory said, his green eyes looking up at the other man, who felt the need to turn away but didn't, who hated the Englishman so much in that moment.

“You cunt,” Christophe said quietly as he began to rock his hips back and forth, too tired to go any faster as he fucked himself on Gregory's cock slowly.

He had one hand pressed against Gregory’s chest that was nowhere as hard as his, the other jerking himself off, trying to end it as quickly as exhuastion was close to drowning him. Gregory watched him, repeating the other's name slowly as a hand pressed up against the side of Christophe’s face, a thumb easily accepted into a warm and wet mouth that sucked on him without a word. It was a great feat on Christophe's part to continue, already come once more, before the blond came in him again. The Frenchmen, breathing heavily, all but collapsed on top of his lover.

Gregory kissed him again, softly as their lips merely pressed against each other, and it was only at the first rays of sunlight entering the studio apartment that Christophe was able to close his eyes and keep them closed, the beast in the bed finally done for the night and slumbering. 

.

.

.

When Christophe woke up, the sun was setting, and everything was sore. He was still on the white bed, the thick blankets wrapped around him, the room warm, and he was hungry and dirty.  
  
Sitting up slowly, Christophe took in the sight of his body, turning over his arms to see underneath. There were teeth marks everywhere, his thighs, chest and neck. Bruises as well, around his waist and ass. But the "love" bite were spread out. His lips were swollen and chapped from the biting and the kissing. A shiver ran down his spine when cum dripped out of him, his face grimacing in disgust.  
  
He sat gingerly at the edge of the bed, both his feet on the floor. He stood, and immediately, he felt weak and fell, his arms catching half his body on the bed. “Fucking bastard,” Christophe cursed as he took a moment to catch his breath, finally noticing two pills of aspirin and a glass of water. Huh, the beast did a little aftercare, not that Christophe cared.  
  
Taking both the pills and water, Christophe dragged himself towards the bathroom, holding onto any stable object as a leverage so that he wouldn't be crawling like a dog. Or at least not yet. Once in the clean, white bathroom, he was mildly impressed as the tiles were marble, along with the toilet, the sink, and the sizable bathtub. The shower had a glass barrier next to it, big enough to fit three people at a time. White towels hung from golden rails in the wall, beside a large mirror that reflected the entire room. A window was merely half a foot above the bath, revealing a nice view of the city from high above.  
  
Unable to stand, Christophe filled up the bathtub, the steam flying out the window screen as he took a better look at himself through the mirror. He looked like a mess, and he felt like one. There didn't seem to be an inch of him unmarked, unbruised, or unkissed. The wrinkle around his eyes were accompanied with darker bags than usual, despite resting for almost twelve hours. He felt as tired as he looked, and so when the tub was filled up, Christophe dunked himself into the water as if to wake up from a dream.   
  
He closed his eyes and held his breath, relaxing underwater. Ironically, it wasn't long ago that he nearly drown, some pathetic counter hitman suffocating him with a tight grip around his neck, and yet, Christophe couldn't feel any more at peace then. Two minutes and fifteen seconds, he counted before rose up from the water, his dirt color hair dripping over his face. He scoffed when he saw the vanilla-scented body soaps and apple spice shampoo and conditioner nearby.  
  
He used them, washing his hair clean and scrubbing his skin almost raw. The water quickly became dirty with blood, sweat, and cum. When he was done, he drained the water and filled up the tub again, this time with cold water, sending his body into light shivers until he got used to the temperature, leaning on his arms and laying his head on them as the rest of his body was submerged in coldness. It counteracted the fiery passion he had with Gregory, and it was making him sleepy.  
  
Pulling himself out of the bath, his legs still too weak to carry him fully, Christophe got out of the tub, letting the water drain again. He sat at the side of the tub as he dried himself off with a clean, white towel, and he tied it around his waist, his clothes still wet (probably) and location unknown (definitely). Once again, Christophe dragged himself back into the bedroom, and when he saw that the covers and blanket were dirty, he threw them off, talking his chances with a naked bed.  
  
Laying back on the bed, Christophe felt his eyes closing without his permission, even though there was still light. He curled up on himself a little, and the sun set.

.

.

.

He was being kissed by familiar lips, starting from his ear to his neck as familiar hands caressed him softly, just wanting to touch him more than anything. A taller, warmer body wrapped itself behind him, a sound of scenting. Christophe lightly groaned in annoyance as Gregory grabbed his cock, pumping it ever so slowly.  
  
“You're wrong if you zink we’re going at it again so soon,” Christophe warned, pausing Gregory's hand with his own. “My ass ‘urts, and my legs are sore.”  
  
Gregory chuckled, his hand not stopping as he continued to kiss tan skin. “Christophe,” the blond said, his free hand tracing up and down Christophe's chest and torso with his manicured fingertips. "Christophe."  
  
Christophe clicked his tongue against his cheek, but didn't stop the Englishman, letting go to grip the pillow as he held back moans, the ministration in his cock feeling so good and being so skillful and the light touches on his skin only making him more sensitive.  
  
He let out a soft sigh when he came, his body feeling a bit too warm, and Gregory turned him around by the face to kiss him again, soft and possessive at the same time. When they parted, Christophe was breathless while Gregory smiled at him, their forehead pressed against each other.  
  
Gregory was wearing his work clothes, a business suit without the jacket and shoes. His white dress shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing a white wife beater underneath. His dark navy pants lacked a belt. He was very handsome, Christophe thought, and a powerful man, the French realized with a silent laugh. Christophe was not one of much importance like a wealthy man, but he certainly did attract them. Wasn't that just a little bit funny?  
  
“Christophe,” Gregory said, drawing the French from his thoughts again, holding his dirtied hand up to the merc’s lips. “Lick it clean for me.”  
  
Christophe's dirt brown eyes glanced at the hand, and he began to lap it up like a damn dog, growing half hard again as he licked Gregory, tasting himself on Gregory, loving how big Gregory to his tongue.  
  
“Good pet,” Gregory said as his hand was licked clean. It got him a growl of irritation in return. “I'm sure you're hungry by now. I didn't see anything moved in the kitchen.”  
  
Christophe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'll eat when I get back on my feet,” he said, turning to his side and getting comfortable.  
  
“And when will that be?” Gregory said, going back to kissing tan skin with a smile.  
  
“Tomorrow if you keep your 'ands off me.”  
  
The blond hummed, picking himself off the bed but not from Christophe. “We have a lot to talk about tomorrow,” he said, standing up and walking into the luxurious bathroom. “You know what I've been getting into these days, right?”  
  
Christophe nearly scoffed but kept silent. Of course, he did; everybody who was interested in protecting themselves heard rumors of the American lawyer gtting specific high-class criminals off without a penalty or charge the past five years. The first was a mob boss being convicted with the murder of three families and two cops. The sentence should have been three life sentences in jail with no possibility of parole, but in less more than two weeks, Gregory of Yardale—Christophe checked; that was the name Gregory went by in actual legal documentation now—had the mobster off with a slap of the wrist.

  
It drove the public in a frenzy, activists and protesters complaining loudly and broadcasting about Gregory with negative criticisms that would have led to social and political suicide on the Englishman’s part. However, Gregory was intelligent, and he had planned his first step into the underworld carefully and wisely. The mob boss he got off was well known throughout New York to Miami, and his connections extended to the other side of the country, dealing with drugs, prostitution, and arms dealing. Get good with that kind of man, and you'll be secure for the rest of your life. Gregory did one better later on by defending any other high-class criminal he could get his hands on, and many more mobsters, gangsters, dealers, and even politicians were in his debt.  
  
Rumors had ran far enough to touch even small-time criminal in Europe and Asia, where Christophe picked most of it off. When he first heard it, the Frenchman nearly exploded into a fit of laughter, not believing how the righteous English asshole turned into such a dangerous man, but then he took a lot at himself and remembered people changed.  
  
A blanket covered him and a warm arm wrapped around his waist, a solid chest against his back, and Christophe felt very comfortable, more comfortable than he should. He hadn't slept with somebody like this in a long time, always leaving his partners after the fucking was over. It made him recall memories of the past, and he closed his eyes so he could ignore them.

.

.

.

 _One hundred four twenty ten seven, one hundred four twenty ten eight, one hundred four twenty ten nine, two hundred._  
  
Christophe stopped, talking a moment to stand from three sets of a hundred and fifty push-ups each. He could stand properly now, which was a good thing, but he'd need another day or so before he would be fully functioning. The sun had barely risen, and Gregory was in the kitchen, making breakfast like some dutiful wife.  
  
Christophe left the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him as he shuffled toward the island kitchen, clothes a little too big for him because they weren't his, not the sweatpants that went past his ankles to the floor, and certainly not the crinkled white shirt that went past his thighs. He was barefoot, the wooden tiles of the apartment and the morning air cold as he made his way to the kitchen and let his feet dangle a foot above the floor when he sat down on the stool.  
  
The apartment was less than minimalistic, everything clean and polished. It was lived in but was more like a place to come by one or twice a day to pick up some clothes and sleep. It had appropriate furniture for a few guests to come over for an hour or two during the afternoon, three empty seats sitting next to Christophe. There was a TV on the other side of the room that could be seen by the kitchen, the coffee table organized and dusted. A maid probably came by every week, but still, it was a very empty place. Christophe could burn this entire place down and Gregory wouldn't care, he knew. Probably would buy another apartment to come by and visit once or twice a day.  
  
“Hungry?” Gregory asked, smiling a charming smile.  
  
Christophe hummed as a plate of pancakes served with honey instead of syrup was set before him, a cup of dark, bitter coffee on his left. “Zis ees so fucking domestic,” he said as he accepted a fork and knife from his golden lover, grimacing as he started to eat. “Eet’s disgusting.”  
  
Gregory chuckled, leaning in his forearms in front of Christophe. “It's not so bad, I believe. When was the last time you had an actual breakfast?”  
  
“After I fucked a Romanian baroness at 'er beach ‘ouse in Switzerland,” Christophe answered unhesitatingly, ignoring the displeased look on his lover's face. “She 'ad 'er butler make eet for me. Fresh baked bread wiz cheese and jam. Wonderful cook, zat man.”  
  
Christophe smirked as he looked at Gregory’s face, seeing the displeasure in the Englishman’s green eyes, a jealousy raging inside. He continued eating, taking his time as he slowly put a bite in his mouth and chewed slowly. The Frenchman knew he was going to regret teasing his lover later, but right now, he was going to enjoy every moment as he played with Gregory’s heart, a heart that he knew was his since the first time they kissed.  
  
A decade apart had turned them into bad men.  
  
Gregory turned away with a huff, picking up a cup of tea from the counter, leaning on it as he took a sip, his eyes never leaving Christophe who turned back to his breakfast. “Do you remember Bebe Stevens?” the Englishman asked, his arms crossed with the cup still in his hand.  
  
“Blond curly slut who wouldn't shut ze fuck up about shoes and makeup?” Christophe asked rhetorically. “Yeah, I remember. Last time I saw 'er, she was sucking face wiz zat retard Clyde Donovan. Did she die or somezing because I don't care.”  
  
Gregory scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “She became a high-end fashion designer here in New York. Almost married Donovan though. I'm one of her favorite clients, and she's coming over here around ten to get you fitted. You didn't have much with you, and as much as I like you wearing my clothes, pet, you need your own sooner or later when you start showing up more in public.”  
  
Christophe growled in irritation. “I don't show my face in public on purpose.”  
  
“I know. I want to dress you nicely."  
  
It was Christophe's turn to scoff. “English bastard, I might let you fuck me, but I'm not your beetch. I know what you're trying to do, and I know how to do eet better zan you zink. So listen 'ere, Gregory. I'll listen, but I will do eet my way. Tell me who to keel, and I'll bury zeir body where no one will ever find eet. Need some fucker to talk, I'll get my 'ands dirty for you. I'll dress up in whatever you want me to wear, but whether I obey or not ees up to me, not you. You do what you want to do, and I'll do what I want to do. Got it?”  
  
A wild glint shined in Gregory's eyes as he smiled, looking way too handsome than maleficent, a promising man of society rather than a future international arms dealer, etc., etc., etc. Christophe hated at that moment how the Englishman looked like a young charming college boy more than anything else, but he loved that.  
  
“There's the pet I know and love,” Gregory said with a laugh, putting down his cup and leaned forward again. He brought a hand up to Christophe's lips and wiped away the thin layer of honey with his thumb, and he licked it slowly, his green eyes displayed with lust.  
  
Christophe dropped the knife and fork in his hands, pulling his golden lover by the collar of the pale blue dress shirt that was as posh and pristine as the apartment, and pressed their lips together in a passion he had never shown anyone else. The plate of honey-covered pancakes was left cold on the kitchen counter as the Frenchmen dragged his lover towards the seemingly new couch.

.

.

.

Bebe Stevens, when she arrived at the time Gregory said, rang the bell twice, and Christophe opened the door with a roll of his eyes, his annoyance of her yet to changed. However, when he saw her for the first time in a decade, he couldn't deny that she had become a very attractive woman.  
  
Her yellow hair, which used to look like a small jungle to him back then, was not as wild as before, curls loosened almost into waves as they traveled past her shoulder. Guys always flirted with her back in high school because of her tits and she knew it, and it seemed that she was taking advantage of her figure, her red blouse accentuating her shape and the black skirt moved lightly with her two inches clad heels. She used to put layers of makeup like some two-bit whore, but she was bearing a more natural style, using a light touch up around her cheeks and eyebrows, a deep red for her lips. The bag she was carrying was worth twice as much as the clothes she was wearing, which were not cheap either.  
  
“You're not a street whore anymore,” was the first thing Christophe said to her. “You actually look pricey.”  
  
To his surprise, Stevens actually smiled, walking into the apartment as if she had done it a million times. “And you still a dick, Christophe,” she rebutted, putting down her bag on the coffee table. “Here I thought you were dead, but at least you didn't lose that bad attitude I used to crush on.”  
  
Christophe frowned, almost disgusted, and he threw the door shut, not caring about making a loud noise. “Do what you're paid to do, whore,” he said, waiting for her.  
  
Again, Stevens laughed, taking out a sketching pad, several coal pencils and measuring tape out of her bag. “I'm not getting paid for this,” she told him, pointing to the open space between the kitchen and the coffee table. "It's for Gregory. Take off the shirt.”  
  
Christophe stripped himself of the shirt, not caring about Stevens' eyes widening at the sight of all the bites, the bruises, and the marks on his skin. “Did Gregory do all this to you?” she asked softly as she quickly got over her shock and started taking his measurements. For a moment, she stopped at a bite mark just above his right hip before continuing, her arms reaching around his waist with the tape.  
  
Christophe hummed, lifting his arms a little for the blonde to move easily. He wanted this over with as quick as possible. “What ees eet to you?” he asked, not really caring.  
  
“Just curious. He never left anything like this when we were together,” she answered.  
  
For some reason, Christophe grew solemn. He expected Gregory to have fucked since he left, but actually hearing about it was unexpected. It was fair though, so Christophe couldn't blame Gregory for that, much less get angry. It was his fault anyway.  
  
“I'm jealous,” Stevens then said, smiling up at Christophe from her position on her knees. “He was always distant when we dated. He never left anything on me, like this apartment. I used to come here all the time, you know, but he never put up anything, not even a picture of the two of us, and we went on a lot of dates and took a lot of pictures. I never saw him even use that TV unless I turned it on, but I bet you already noticed it, huh? I hate this place a lot, but it's where you can always find Gregory. It was like he never did anything outside this place, where everything is white and clean and lonely.”  
  
“What are you getting at?” Christophe asked, his eyes blank as the mannequins Stevens used for her designs.  
  
“Just mentioning how he's finally leaving his mark on someone again. When we had sex, we made love. He'd whisper to me very gently and hold me like I was the entire world, but he felt like a ghost to me. He would kiss me, but he wouldn't even leave a mosquito bite. His hands were just so soft, but there was never anything to show that he even touched me. That stupid, charming smile he shows to everyone is grating, and his voice is so pretentious in just the way everyone think he is. Everything he does seems like something in a script for a movie. It pisses me off every time he laughs.”  
  
Christophe stayed silent as she wrote down his measurements, and she continued. “But I still love him, even though he'll never love me like that. I know because he told me, but what hasn't changed is that he always comes to me when he needs an outlet. I'm his closest friend, Christophe, only second to you now, but that doesn't mean anything. If you slip up just a little, he might come crawling back to me for comfort again. So watch yourself because I'm not going to let him go so easily next time.”  
  
As she spoke, she measured upwards from his hips to his waist to his chest to his shoulders until she looped it around his neck, her fingers pressing tightly at the ends as she smiled. She was one move from strangling him right then and there, and Christophe grinned, finding it really funny. She could try, and she would fail. One move, and he would have already won. She knew this, and she still had the fucking nerves to threaten him.  
  
Ten years was a good amount of time for her to mature, and Christophe liked it.  
  
“I can do whatever I want wiz zat beetch,” he told her confidentially as he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her closely, “and 'e can run to you licking ‘is wounds, but I'll never lose to a whore like you, Stevens.”  
  
With a smooth movement, Christophe dipped her slightly to throw her off balance on her added height and kissed her, a reward more than a punishment for caring so much for his lover while he was gone.  
  
When Stevens reclaimed herself, she slapped him across the face with a look of disdain on her face, but it didn't stop Christophe from smiling as he stood half naked. She wasn't finished yet, and silently, they understood each other a little more.  
  
Then, surprisingly, Christophe told Stevens to stay however long she wanted. He felt like watching some TV, he said, and she nodded as she continued. When she was done, she took put away her things in her bag, took off her heels, made a cup of tea, and sat on the couch, moving as if she had been at the apartment a million times before because she had. Then she picked up the remote that hadn't been touched in, likely, months, and flipped through the channels until some popular soap opera showed up. Christophe sat next to her, and they watched quietly as the wife pressured her husband’s mistress to give her the baby when it arrived to make up for her own infertility, the reason her husband went looking somewhere else.  
  
The next episode, the mistress got an abortion, and Stevens cried. Christophe didn't ask her why. He didn't even ask her to shut up.

.

.

.

**City hall @ 1030 sharp. Wear the blue one.**

**Don't approach me. Don't talk to me.**

**Just stay aware. Think of it as a third date.**

It wasn't long after Christophe started showing up in public that Gregory was in the center of another case, involving a senator’s son and headlining, not because the fucking asshole hit a little girl at one in the afternoon in a residential area and got acquitted but because there was always someone keeping an ear out for the lawyer by default. Because what the Yale alumni did was newsworthy, apparently. However, there was one particular journalist who was sticking her nose a little too close rather than just her ears. Charlie Nomsky, and she was a problem off the bat.  
  
“You want me to take 'er out,” Christophe said, looking at the picture of Nomsky at the bottom of her newest article, _Yardale Acquits Hit and Run, Again._  
  
She was middle aged, but barely as if the prime of her youth had just come to pass. She had short black hair, hazel eyes, and a staged smile. Christophe recalled the last time he took out someone who looked like her, an adulteress whose husband decided it was time to dissolve the marriage without the prenup. It was an easy job, killing that woman in a bed. She had a thing for strong men, compared to the pot belly she had as a husband.  
  
“Not necessarily,” Gregory replied, salting the steaks before putting them in the pan. Vapors were becoming visible to the naked eye. “I'm fine with merely _convincing_ her. If you're not up for it, pet, I can just ask an acquaintance of mine to help me instead.”  
  
Christophe snorted, placing the phone to the side. “What has she been doing?” he asked, wanting some information.  
  
“She broke into my desk. The surveillance caught her, and she took some files. I don't need them back, but I can't let her keep them.”  
  
“Ah.” Christophe forgot all about Nomsky to the taste of a well done steak.  
  
A month later, Christophe found out all he could about Nomsky, communication major from NYU with a minor in journalism. She had a younger sister named Lily, and her parents were Patrick and Autumn Nomsky. She was thirty-seven years old, thirty-eight in May. She never broke a bone but had surgery for a ruptured spleen. She didn't smoke or drink habitually, the occasional social party here and there. No boyfriend or fiancé because she was too busy trying to make a big break for herself. She lived on 601 Eldma Lane. She liked sugar with her coffee, but no creamer. She preferred lighter shades of clothing to darker shades, but she always carried a navy blue shoulder bag. She wore comfortable shoes rather than flats. During her free time, she went looking for things to cover, from local firefighters celebrating an anniversary to potential corrupt lawyers.  
  
On Thursdays mornings, she sat at a local cafe on her laptop, working on her novel. A stereotype.  
  
Christophe approached her, much unlike a mercenary. He walked up to her small table—outside furthest from the gate—and tapped his knuckle against the weak metal. She looked up with confusion, not expecting to meet with anyone that day. “I would like to talk with you, Miss Nomsky,” he spoke with American accent, jerking his head a little towards the empty seat across her. “It concerns a certain Englishman.”

She was uneasy, visible swallowing in nervousness, but she nodded. “Who are you?” she asked, which was expected. “Do you know Yardale?”  
  
He sat down. He didn't take off his dark sunglasses or his hat, leaning back on the chair. “It is better if you stop asking questions like that, Miss Nomsky,” he said firmly, looking off into the distant. “For your safety.”  
  
Nomsky frowned, looking offended. “Look, whoever you are,” she said, nearly tripping over her own words, “if you don't have anything to offer me than a warning, then you should leave. I don't take threats to my life well, so tell Yardale that I'm coming for him and that he'd better watch himself.”  
  
“Those files you stole, burn them,” he told her, ignoring her courage completely. He took out a cigarette. It was his first one in a while, since he came to the city really. He had just been so busy not being awake he hadn't had time to soak back into his addiction. “It’s not the warning that you should be scared of but the fact that he doesn't even need them back. Strike your gold somewhere else.”  
  
Nomsky slammed her laptop closed, putting it into her shoulder bag with some aggressiveness. “Do not come near me again, or I’ll call the police.”  
  
“And why should I take you seriously? I could kill you right now.”  
  
She gave him a over polite smile in mocking. “Because you haven't yet, and I keep a personal recorder on me at all times. Stay away from me.”  
  
Christophe watched as she picked up all her personal items and stomped away, pulling out her phone to make a call to someone he didn't care for. She reminded him of someone he once knew, a failed job actually. That was when he learned he was much better at killing than protecting. Taking a drag from his barely lit cigarette, he pulled out his phone singlehandedly and sent a text, not bothering to wait for a reply **.**

 **teh pussy didnt piss** **herself**

He got up, walking away from the table outside furthest away from the gate, and he went back to the almost empty almost lived in apartment, waiting up for the fucking blond excuse of an English cunt. Gregory left work earlier than usual, probably because Christophe didn't pick up any calls.  
  
“What do you think?” he asked, taking off his suit jacket and placing it messily on the couch. “I find her tolerable compared to some of my clients.”  
  
“Ballsy beetch,” Christophe answered curtly, already pressed up against the wall as a greeting. He groaned against his will, hands gripping loose locks of yellow hair. “Stop eet, you dumb animal. Make dinner or somezing.”  
  
Gregory hummed in pseudo consideration. “I missed you, pet.”  
  
“And I don't care. Chew on a brick zis time.”  
  
“Don't want to. You smell like smoke.”  
  
“Got a problem, you stu—"  
  
Christophe went to bed without dinner that night. Gregory did not.

.

.

.

Gregory never brought people over before to Christophe’s knowledge, not since he showed up in the middle of the night. Until the first time that he did and Christophe was laying on the floor, only his legs resting on the couch. The TV was playing, not that Christophe was paying attention as he aimlessly stared upside-down at the screen. The volume was low, but Christophe read the captions. That soap was on, a man kidnapped and tortured by a mob boss because his daughter wanted to married the poor bastard. What a dumb bitch. What kind of marriage did she expect to have with someone who was afraid?  
  
It was one of those rare days when Gregory didn't disappear to work. The night before, he had returned back with several bags of groceries and ingredients. Christophe should have asked when Gregory didn't force him to bed early, but he didn't think of it for too long because whatever the dumb blond did or did not tell him wasn't much his business unless it became his business.  
  
Gregory had been in the island kitchen the entire day mostly, white noise as Christophe walked out of the bedroom at two in the the afternoon, ate whatever was set on the counter for him, and dropped onto the floor and couch as he flicked the large, flat screen TV almost nine feet away on. Maybe the Englishman had said something once in the next several hours, but Christophe was in between feeling tired from sleeping too much and feeling relaxed after a full night sleep.  
  
But it didn't matter when the doorbell rang. Dinner was ready, and Gregory was dressed well, too much for his own apartment but too little for a social outing. Christophe focused in on the pacing of Gregory’s feet walking towards the door, opening it to the sound of two men who greeted their graceful host.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Gregory said, charmingly, “you're just in time. Dinner was done a few minutes ago. Please come in and take a seat.”  
  
“Thank you, Gregory,” said the first man, polite and well spoken. “Your home is very clean, as I thought it'd be.”

“Gregory,” said the second man, a bit surprised, “you never told me you lived with another man.” This man was a lot younger than Christophe expected to come for business. There was no doubt this dinner was business.    
  
“He’s the pet cat,” Gregory said, and Christophe could hear his amused smile.  
  
“Oh, that cat. He looks a bit familiar. Is he joining us?”  
  
“I know this man,” the first man from earlier said with an impressed tone, coming up to stand behind the couch too. Now there were two people looking at Christophe like some zoo exhibit. “It’s _Le Mole_. I hired him once. Best hitter I've ever had. I never knew you were his keeper, Gregory.”  
  
Christophe glared at the first man, Omar Valslake, Russian mob boss with territories in Miami. “50000 USD,” he said, recalling the details of the job perfectly. “Itxaro Anton, illegitimate daughter of your second mistress from an affair. To teach 'er a lesson. Your mistress committed suicide a week later.”  
  
“Hey, shut up your mouth up,” the second man said. He resembled Valslake because this was his son, Peter. “What kind of hitman remembers shit like this?”  
  
“My son, shush,” Valslake said, oddly calm. “This is our esteemed host’s cat you're speaking to. Come, let's sit down. I believe we are waiting for Mister Eric and his wife?”  
  
Valslake pulled his son out of Christopher’s sight, and Christophe heard soft movements and shuffling. They were talking with Gregory again, ignoring the former mercenary. It was only moments later when the doorbell rang again.  
  
“Pet,” Gregory called from the kitchen, “would you open the door for me?”  
  
Christophe rolled his eyes for no reason, but he was already up, the blood rushing back to his legs again. He opened the door, taking a first look at the last of the guests. They were far too familiar than he liked, and without a word, he slammed the door on them, much to everyone else's surprise.  
  
“Christophe?” Gregory said, warning laced in his tone. “What are you doing? Open the door for them.”  
  
The doorbell rang again, again and again. “Eet's zat fat fuck,” Christophe said, glaring over his shoulders, “and zat smart mouz beetch. What are zey doing 'ere?”  
  
Gregory sighed. “They're my guests, Christophe. Let them in.”  
  
Christophe have the blond a rude gesture before he did what he was told, scoffing in disgust that Eric ‘fat fuck’ Cartman and Wendy 'smart mouth bitch' Testaburger were still standing outside, irritation on their expressions. “Cunt, fatass,” he greeted them individually, “ees not so nice to see your ugly faces again.”  
  
“Don't speak to my wife that way, frog,” Cartman said, pushing his way into the room. To Christophe, he didn't look much different from ten years ago, big and sounded like a bitch, but he did seem taller now with confidence more than arrogance. And Cartman could even dress like a decent human being now, no longer wearing that red sweater but an actual party suit, tie and all. His hair was slicked back now to give him that cleaner look, and he wore a gold band in his ring sausage. He spoke with a slight hint of an accent, as if he hadn't lived in the States for years. “Only I get to do that.”  
  
Testaburger hit his arm in annoyance. “Shut up, Eric,” she scoffed, making her way towards Gregory. She was holding her arms out for a hug, and the blond accepted it with a small laugh. She got skinny, or at least her clothes got slimmer. It was difficult to assess everyone’s physical body back in South Park as easily as Christophe because he was pretty much the only one who only wore a shirt back then. So she was slim, and curvy, wearing a black dress that stopped mid thigh, tight around her waist with a bow at her left hip, but she was still wearing that stupid pink—purple?—barrette. She was also wearing a gold band on her left finger. “Gregory, it's been too long. I wish you would come to Germany once in a while.”

“I'm not one for vacation, though,” Gregory replied, gesturing to Christophe to take an opened bottle of wine from him, "but maybe."  
  
The Frenchman noticed, for the first time today, that there was a table set. Not the island counter but a real wooden table round as a circle. There was six wooden chairs with maroon plush seatings to match the a tablecloth draped over. There was six sets of plates and utensils, cloth napkins folded nearly on top. In the middle, there was a small centerpiece of a circle of ten candlesticks lighting up the red holly flowers below. Six flute glasses stood finely in the light, the room dimmed to give the atmosphere an intimate feel. There were two small basketfuls of bread and cheese.  
  
Wordlessly taking the cue, Christophe grabbed the bottle from Gregory and began to pour out the wine into the glasses as everyone began to settle in without much of an introduction. It seemed that everyone else know each other beforehand. They were just making another deal again.  
  
Christophe sat down, Gregory’s temporarily empty seat to his right and Testaburger to his left. And next to her, in that order, was Cartman, Valslake younger and lastly Valslake himself. Gregory then served out the main course: sous-vide filet mignon with mushroom sauce.  
  
Dinner began.

.

.

.

It wasn't common knowledge that Gregory had his own firm, an independent with a sizeable office in the corner of some lovely business part of the city, residing between a bakery and a florist. Christophe had yet to go there, but from what he saw from the surveillance videos, it was a neat office, everything organized without the need of an assistant or even a secretary. Gregory did everything himself. To the side, there was a bathroom and a small personal closet. It was more lived in that the large walk in closet of the apartment, until only recently.  
  
“You 'ave cameras but no alarm,” he noted, watching the video again.  
  
Nomsky broke in around 4 a.m. with a picklock. There was a small click, but no loud, annoying sound to tell the entire street what she was doing. She used the flashlight on her phone to see her way. She knew there was no alarm.  
  
“Didn't think I'd ever need to,” Gregory said, arms crossed. “There are much better protection against nighttime thieves besides the police. It wouldn't have been difficult to find her, or someone to do it for me. It'd only be a waste of money.”  
  
Christophe scoffed. “What else would you spend eet on? You don't even buy rugs. Pretentious pigs like to 'ave rugs in their 'ouses. Even ugly ones.”  
  
“Investments, Christophe. You can't make money without spending it wisely. I'm thinking of retiring from law soon.”  
  
“Whatever. Get me contact wiz one of your buddies. Put a ‘it on 'er. A good one.”  
  
Gregory raised an eyebrow. “When?” he asked this question rather than any other ones.  
  
“Sometime zis week. Eet 'as to be someone who's good at pretending. 'old 'er wiz a knife. No guns.”  
  
“I have just the man to do it. You remember Kenny McCormick?”  
  
“Ze poor son a mother beetch? Zought 'e became some faggot model.”  
  
“He is, small-time, but he has a cult following that loves his bad boy persona. Every so often, he gets involved with business and hopes to get on social media.”  
  
“What a 'orrible beetch. Send me 'is contact. We're going to stage a mock mugging. No guns. No stealing. Ees for shock value."  
  
Gregory was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said slowly, closing the laptop.  
  
Christophe’s eyes looked up at him, waiting for the next move. His body was aching and sore, needy and tired. His muscles tensed when Gregory pulled him by a hand, wrapping an arm around his waist. It was just a kiss, just a kiss that was so tender and soft because Gregory just held Christophe, and Christophe couldn't help but melt into this embrace, wrapping his arms around Gregory's slighter shoulders and closing his eyes.  
  
It wasn't often that Gregory was in the mood for gentleness. The nights usually burned away like a candle wax, dripped over warm skin. Christophe didn't mind that, already used to the roughness and the demanding nature of his lover. Bruises and bites littered his body like tattoos because they were always on him, some small open wounds turning into the tiniest of scars. Christophe used to get scars from being almost fatally wounded and being thrown at things.  
  
But when Gregory was kinder than usual, maybe because of a shot of sentimental love that did exist between them, the night began to chip away, minute by minute, second by second. Nights like these, Christophe liked, though he'd never admit it to the dumb blond, not willingly. Still, he could not deny how warm the touches were, how they felt like anchors that reached the deepest part of the ocean, and he wanted to cling onto them forever. Blue lit nights like these, Christophe knew for certain that he was in love, everything turning into a haze of darkness yet seemed so filling. He sank into this ocean of adoration and gentleness, the sun rising in the sky again in a morning that could have come much later.

.

.

.

Gregory was stabbed on his way out of courtroom one rainy looking day. The judge for the case called for a thirty minute recess, and everyone, from defendant to witnesses, walked out of the room. Christophe watched as a multitude of dutiful citizens came out in a small crowd, chattering like drones of bees, and he saw Gregory, suit jacket in one arm, striding through the hall with a set smile, politely apologizing to someone who bumped hard into him.  
  
Christophe saw Gregory's damn smile stagger along with his next step, and the former mercenary was chasing the assailant, gaining speed on the attacker almost immediately. The Frenchman tackled the assailant to the ground, shoving the other man's face into the ground with one arm twisted too hard against his back. People who saw Christophe were about to cause a commotion when there was a woman's scream coming from another direction. Everyone had barely noticed what Christophe saw in slow motion.  
  
The man who stabbed Gregory was the older brother of a rape victim whose rapist was freed by the lawyer himself only a week ago. Several policemen were pointed their way, and they quickly arrested the assailant who was sobbing with anger. They thanked Christophe for catching the man and took away the deadly kitchen knife that was lying bloodied on the floor only seconds ago.  
  
Christophe sneaked away in the few moments of calming chaos before anyone could ask him for a detailed report. He sent a text as he walked back to the apartment on the 23rd floor.

**if yoi die tell god ill see him in hell**

When he arrived back, he threw all his clothes onto the floor as he made his way to the large, white bathroom, and Christophe sat in a hot bath until his phone rang with a ringtone used for strangers who'd never called him before. He had to get out of the tub in order to answer it.  
  
"What?" he curtly said, grabbing a towel to dry himself off.  
  
_"Christophe? It's me, Bebe,"_ the other end answered, voice trembling a little. _"Gregory was stabbed. They called me because I'm his emergency contact, but I think you should know too. He's at the General Hospital closest to city hall."_  
  
"Ees he dead yet?"  
  
_"Gosh, no. He's in surgery right now, but he lost a lot of blood in the way here. They tell me he'll be fine, but I'm, I'm scared. C— could_ _you come down here and what with me? Wendy left for Germany last month, so I don't have anyone else to . . ."_

  
Christophe never planned on doing that. He planned on waiting Gregory's recovery at the hospital for the next few days, doing what the fuck he wanted like get full night's sleep consecutively. He planned to live the next few days as if he had a proper, fully functioning life.  
  
"Thirty minutes. Don't be a crying beetch when I get zere."  
  
He hung up and got dressed in less than five minutes, out of the complex in ten.  
  
He hailed a taxi in two and rode in it for fifteen minutes through a quiet, lazy afternoon.  
  
It took him an extra five minutes to find the waiting room, and Christophe didn't tell the expensive looking whore that her mascara was dripping like ink down her face. Or snapped at her for crying like a bitch when he told her not to. He didn't even stop her when she grabbed his hand to hold.  
  
He wondered what Gregory had done to her to make her love him so much, but he didn't ask. He just sat with her.

.

.

.

 _22h36._ They were both waiting in the unlit corner across the street of a cheap apartment building. Christophe was wearing a hoodie pulled over his face while McCormick was wearing a similar orange parka that didn't seem a bit familiar. That was only because this parka was new and made to last longer four winter coats over sixteen years. The blond model was taking sips from a bottle of vodka as Christophe kept an eye around the corner.  
  
McCormick hadn't change much, from the drinking to the nonchalant attitude that got him a lay whenever he wanted. He did get prettier, probably all those products and effort to keep a clear face, but he still spoke like a hick. "How's fucking Yardale?" he asked just as crudely as Christophe would. "I heard from both Bebe and Wendy that he's _real_ gentle."  
  
Christophe sneered. "He fucked Testaburger too?" he asked with slight disgust. But then he realized it shouldn't be much of a surprise. They were pretty close growing up, being into the same interests and people. "Wasn't she wiz ze fatass after 'igh school?"  
  
McCormick snickered, not sounding as drunk as he should've been halfway through a thirty-five proof. "They were, but they were on and off whenever Cartman was about to go back to being a stupid fatass until the one time he hit her. He said it was an accident, but Wendy can be nasty and petty when she wants to be. So she fucked Yardale and sent Cartman the video. Cartman hates pretty boy since."  
  
"And zey still got married? Guess Cartman didn't learn anyzing much from zat."  
  
"Nah, it was Wendy who proposed. Cartman was on his way to becoming a junior executive chief of that Germany artillery manufacturing company, and he became such a bitch boy. But only for her, 'cause he'd cuss you out if you try."  
  
"Well, if zat eesn't some fucked up shit to zink about," Christophe commented with a frown. "What about you? I can guess zat you got fucked like ze rest of us."  
  
McCormick laughed, taking another sip of his bottle. "I'm actually further up on the normal spectrum," he said, giving the other man a wink, "right about under Tucker and Tweek. Those two are married and own their own businesses back home. And me, I'm been steady with Butters almost five years and earning enough from my modeling jig. And my little sister wants to be a veterinarian. The most fucked thing about me being way higher in the normal spectrum than you is that I'm too far open to committing crimes, like mugging a bitch who won't shut her trap."  
  
Christophe was itching to smoke again, but he didn't want to risk the smell sticking to McCormick. This scenario had to be as separate from Gregory as possible, even if it involves McCormick possibly being arrested for the upcoming murder.  
  
"Hey, I think that's her," McCormick whispered almost excitedly, pointing at a figure coming under the dimmed streetlight. Before Christophe could stop the half drunk blond, McCormick chugged the rest of the bottle and ran across the street, taking a butterfly knife out of the pocket of his parka.  
  
Christophe could only wait and see if the small time model would fuck everything up. If it came down to it, there may two murders to plan.  
  
"Hey, sexy lady," McCormick sang softly to Nomsky, who suddenly became nervous at the appearance of an orange hooded man from the dark. In one hand, he was holding the empty bottle; in the other, he was playing with his knife like a toy, pointing it right at her. "I kinda like that bag you got there. Why don't you be nice and give that to me?"  
  
"N— no!" Nomsky said, pulling her shoulder bag out of McCormick's reach as he tried to grab for it. "Don't touch it! I'm calling the police! I'm not giving you anything!"

McCormick clicked his tongue, changing the dynamic of his mugging. "Don't make me say it again, bitch. I don't want your shitty life and I don't want to fight, but if you don't give me that bag or try to run and scream, I won't think twice about cutting you up to shut you up. Now _give me the fucking bag._ "  
  
Nomksy was frighteningly still for a moment, and then she shot up the stairs of her apartment building, shuffling out her keys to get inside to safety. Stupid move, because McCormick was in her, grabbing her by her light brown hair and pulling her down to the dirty cement ground. He threw down the bottle in his hand, shattering the glass, and grabbed at the bag.  
  
Christophe watched as McCormick pretended to give Nomsky a hard time and Nomksy crying loudly in frustration and fear as she cling onto her bag. Lights were beginning to turn in around the area, people looking outside to find the source that woke them up.  
  
Finally, at the last moment before the entire neighborhood woke up the sound of frantic screaming for help, McCormick used his knife, slashing at Nomsky right across her left forearm which she held up in a moment of reflexive defense. And Nomksy, at the same time, managed to pull McCormick's orange hoodie off to let her see the face of the man trying to mug her.  
  
McCormick then decided it was time to run before the cops got there. He pushed her right at the low steps of the apartment building, and she fell, clutching her bag in her arms. "I'll kill you, you crazy fuck!" he shouted as he ran down the street.  
  
Christophe stood, mildly impressed, watching as someone came out towards Nomksy who was left crying and bleeding on the steps, people looking at the spectacle outside.  
  
He left too before the police arrive, the sound of their sirens accompanied with the blaring of the ambulance fading away as they drove past him.

**Ur a g8 help tongiht.**

**Watev. Jst get me a gud lawyer**

**U 2 owe mme .**

.

.

.

"You became a doctor," Christophe said, watching as Kyle Broflovski helped ease Gregory into the couch which was made comfortable with multiple pillows sent by Testaburger overseas. "'ow Jew of you. Cartman was right."  
  
The Jewish doctor rolled his eyes as Gregory chuckled softly. The redhead wordlessly gave the blond a book to read, something about gods and media or something.  
  
Broflovski no longer had that Jewfro but longer hair that showed just how curly he was. Back in high school, the infamous Jewfro just shrank until it resembled like red turf of grass, which was probably he was best friends with the school quarterback. And he was taller now too, lanky to fit his height with a light dash of freckles that should've disappeared over time but instead darkened like many tiny brown spots. He was wearing clothes that didn't make him seem like he was a doctor, though.  
  
"I'll be staying at a hotel a few blocks from here," Broflovski told Gregory, not dignifying Christophe's comment with a sound response, "until I'm sure you're healed up properly. As your doctor, no strenuous activity. As your friend, enjoy your break. You know my number."  
  
"Thank you, Kyle," Gregory said pleasantly, as if he hadn't been stab recently. Christophe wanted to punch his handsome face until it resembled nothing like pretty.  
  
"Goodnight, Gregory, Christophe," Broflovski lastly said with a nod after he packed his bag.  
  
The two watched as the ginger who grew up to be a man walk out through the door without a look back. Christophe felt as if Broflovski was very distant, his preachy to the gullible choir attitude gone.  
  
"Somezing crawled up 'is ass and ate 'is personality," the Frenchman commented with some snark. It felt odd, really, to see the Jew like that, almost broken in a way Christophe couldn't see.  
  
Gregory hummed, gesturing his lover to him with a finger. Christophe narrowed his eyes but obey, not needing to be told to kneel on the floor between Gregory's long, opened legs and opened fly. He kept his eyes on the handsome blond as he took his lover into his mouth, watching the other man lean back in pleasure as he closed his blue eyes with a soft sigh.  
  
"Good, pet," Gregory praised almost quietly, entwining his lithe fingers between strands of Christophe's dirt brown hair. "I'll tell you a story in a bit. Just keep that mouth on me, oh, like that. Good, pet."  
  
When Gregory came, Christophe tasted of salt and acid, swallowing the load with a thumb pressed into his mouth and kept there.  
  
"After you left, the two best friends went to the same university, Kyle for premed and Stan Marsh for American football and maths," he started, smearing his thumb against Christophe's bottom lip. "They were roommates and all that happy exposition, but Kyle was foolish enough to be in love with Stan and actually confessed a year into  college. It really wasn't surprising that they got together, but then Stan got injured during a game a month in. He was rammed too hard by the biggest player in the other team, and stopped breathing for almost three minutes.  
  
"At the hospital, they found out Stan suffered brain damage from the lack of oxygen. When he woke up from a two day coma, he forgot the last three years of his life and bits and pieces here and there. He forgot he was twenty-one and had a boyfriend. He forgot that he didn't live in South Park anymore and all the friends he made. He didn't forget about Kyle though, because they are best friends, but he did forget about being with Kyle.  
  
"And Kyle, he nearly lost his mind when he found out because Stan wasn't the one that learned to love him over the few years. It was sort of the Stan who couldn't do some things anymore. Obviously, he couldn't stay at uni anymore, so his parents took him back to South Park. He lives there again, working as a mechanic in a shop Craig Tucker owns, but Kyle went to graduate school and became a doctor. He was heartbroken and became reclusive. His main office is in Denver, but he comes back to see Stan once a month.  
  
"They're still best friends, of course, but it's just that now. Stan's still the same as he was in high school, almost, and Kyle kind of stopped being him these days. I suppose seven isn't the magic number."  
  
Christophe was resting his upper body on top of Gregory's lap, his brown eyes looking dully up at the other man. "What a sad cunt," he said tonelessly. "What a fucking tragedy. Ze ozer French frogs would love zis story, but zey're full of shit anyway."

.

.

.

Christophe groaned quietly, one annoying vibrating notification enough to wake him up. He blinked with annoyance as he got used to the sunlight at 10 fucking o’clock in the morning, but he didn't move from his place under Gregory. The blond was still recovering from his wound, taking a few more days from work, which may or may not be bad news for the criminals of the city. The Frenchman closed his eyes for another moment before he grabbed his phone with a free hand.

**Heu check me ouut: luvsfeed.com/celebrity/nomsky/small-time-model-attempts-mugging-on-journalist-me**

Obviously, Nomsky was a very creative writer, Christophe thought when he clicked on the article McCormick just text him. It was a recount of the mugging from two nights ago, but with a lot of artistic bullshit added to it. Fuck, she even detailed that ugly ass parka to include metaphors. Christophe always knew he disliked the artistic types, always pretentious and always trying to romanticise shit, even crapping your pants out of fear.  
  
He spent the next half an hour looking at different social media, from Twitter to the comment section of the articles and related features. Christophe found out that McCormick did have a small following that were very dedicated to him, all of them trending **#mckenisluv** , **#mckendidnothingwrong** , and **#nomskyhasbeenblessed**. It was almost sickening if Christophe had not wanted this to happen. There were a few fans, though, the less hardcore ones, who openly denounced themselves from the model, but they were met with harsh backlash by the trenders. On Facebook, the article received comments similar to the ones at the bottom of the articles, some wishing Nomsky well and being disgusted by a celebrity committing a crime and the apologetics.  
  
Overall, the attention received by both McCormick and Nomsky was a good thing, but it was still too soon to do anything. There had to be a few more names to stack on top of McCormick's when people thought of Nomsky.

**whore**

**(ʘ言ʘ╬)**

**That's not how u greet someone, Christophe! (ಠ ∩ಠ)**

**j hate thos looks retarded**

**Leave my emoticons alone!**

**What do u need? (・・)**

**you heard f teh cunt mccormick trird to mug?**

**Yea. Nomsky, rite? Wat about her?**

**give her a intervew youre make clotes right?**

**give her an  inclusive or womethjng**

**⁀⊙﹏☉⁀ Do u mean: an EXclusive???**

**I guess I can, but y?**

**mccormicks in a bit of trouble becaus of her need to blow some stuff ovrr**

**gregroy cant defend him yet**

**Well . . . . ●﹏● okay, if it means helping out friends.**

**I'm not going 2 get arrested, am I???**

**no just give her an intrrvewget in contact with her nw and scehdule it for soon**

**pretend you likd her writing tweet it**

**instagam snapchat facebook whatever get it trend g**

**Sure thing, *boss*. (^^ゞ**

**I want something in return tho.**

**waht? the fuck**

**fine**

**୧⍢⃝୨୧⍢⃝୨୧⍢⃝୨୧⍢⃝୨୧⍢⃝୨**

**i hate those tihngd so muc**

**Shut up! t( -_- t )**

***Anyway*, u've been back for, like wat, a year already, but u haven't done anything except hole up in dat apartment? Have a nite out w me! (☆ω☆*)**

**We’ll have dinner and drink. And see a show and maybe do a little shopping! (✿◠‿◠)**

**We'll have so much fun 2. Oh! ۹(ÒہÓ)۶**

**We should do it when Wendy's back! ۹(ÒہÓ)۶**

Christophe needed a moment to weigh this out.

**i rather kill myself**

**but fine**

**＼(★^∀^★)／＼(★^∀^★)／＼(★^∀^★)／**

**fuckijg whore**

**(~￣³￣)~**

Christophe decided he wasn't replying anymore.

**Phoned my assistant 4 an interview. The article should b out by Friday.**

At that, Christophe had to laugh. “Much faster zan Gregory,” he said out loud.

Gregory sort of woke up then, not nearly as conscious as he was calling back asleep. He hummed, rubbing circles on Christophe’s hip out of habit.

Christophe ran his fingers through the locks of yellow hair roughly. “Ees nozing,” he assured, putting the phone back down on the nightstand. “Go back to sleep.”

.

.

.

Christophe woke up feeling sore, which wasn't new but hadn't happened for the past few weeks. He could feel the faint pain wafting from the new bites on his skin, the warm aftertaste of the bruises, and the dryness left in his joints. He didn't want to move, swearing at the two extra days that Gregory didn't need to recover because the blond was already letting go of his restraints during the nights, which lasted too long in retrospect.

But he really needed to get up, not because he had plans today but because someone had entered the apartment, coming through with a key. It could not be Gregory, who had a full schedule ahead of him the first day back.

There was a knock on the door, but Christophe stayed silent.

“Christophe,” the intruder said, voice mostly toneless. “Are you in there? I came to check in on you.”

“What's zere to check on, Broflovski?” Christophe asked, his voice cracking halfway before he cleared his throat a few times to get it right again. The door opened without his permission, but he couldn't find it in himself to tell the Jew to leave. “What do you want? Gregory's at work if you want to beetch him.”

Broflovski had a blank expression on his face, his green eyes roaming over Christophe’s body as if to reconfirm something. Then he lifted up a finger and pressed it against Christophe's neck right above his left collarbone. “I saw a bruise here last time,” he noted out loud. “It was fading, but I was still curious as to where you've gotten that.”

Christophe snorted, barely managing enough energy to curl up facing away from the doctor. “What ees eet to you?”

“Gregory never leaves bruises that takes long to fade,” Broflovski answered as if the answer was obvious. “But he left one on you. He's rougher, isn't he?”

Christophe didn't reply.

“You don't have to answer that. I can already see the new ones he left you. How often does he do it this roughly?”

There was a dip in the bed behind Christophe, and he did not move away from a careful hand touching his back, possibly tracing the bruises and bites along his spine. “Most of ze time,” Christophe answered, closing his eyes as Broflovski began to message where everything felt painful and warm.

“And the aftercare?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Then get up and take a shower.”

Christophe turned to look over his shoulder, glaring at Broflovski with irritation. “Get ze fuck out already, you ginger fuck,” he spit out, not in the mood to be challenged.

Broflovski huffed with half amusement, ignoring the former mercenary's order. Instead he went into the large bathroom, throwing his coat on top of a chair, and Christophe heard the sound of water rushing, the vapors of the steaming water traveling somewhat into the bedroom through the open door. When the water stopped, the doctor came back in, the long sleeves of his light gree shirt rolled up.  

“Don't make an ass of yourself,” Broflovski said, tugging Christophe up from the bed, an arm over his shoulder and an arm around Christophe's hip which was littered with small imprints of fingers. “You can just sit in the tub, but you need wash up at the very least. I'm amazed you've gone this long without severe infection on the opened wounds, but I guess a rat of any kind can survive living in dirt.”

Christophe scoffed. “Moles aren't rodents,” he said, being placed almost too gently into the bathtub.

His entire body sank without much resistance, Christophe’s head slipping past beneath the surface. It was calming under there, and the Frenchman, for a moment, forgot the need to breathe. This was what peace felt like.

Then a hand pulled him out a second too soon, and Christophe was again exposed to the cold oxygen. “You can drown afterwards,” Broflovski said, taking Christophe's arms and began washing them with careful hands. For a doctor, his hands were very soft, as if he never picked up a medical instrument once in his career. It felt like he just proclaimed a patient cured, and a miracle occurred.

“Why do you care?" Christophe asked, just sitting there. He closed his eyes, realizing he was far more tired than he should be.

Broflovski hummed a note in thought. “Like I said, Gregory never leaves bruises that takes long to fade,” the doctor said, sounding like he was writing a prescription than a description. “He tends to gentle and thoughtful with his partners.”

Christophe opened one eye in curiosity. “Did he fuck you too?” he asked this time, almost laughing.

Broflovski rolled his eyes. “I'm not gay, Christophe.”

“But you were in love wiz Marsh. He's a man ze last time I saw 'im, unless 'e got one of zose sex changes.”

“He didn't. It's complicated. I like woman. I'm sexually attracted to women, but with Stan, I  just— I just love _him_. He’s been my best friend since forever, and I saw past the fact he had a dick. He did too, once.”

“So you two were just gay for each ozer? Zat’s still a little bit gay, Broflovski.”

Broflovski frowned, looking almost frustrated. “If that is what you think, then fine,” he retorted, but his tone remained flat, “call me what you want, but no, Gregory never _fucked_ me. He's not the only one from South Park who comes to me as their personal doctor. Bebe and Wendy do too, and they like to talk, a lot. And when they were physically involved with Gregory, they told me how endearing he was with them during sex. From what I've been told, Gregory is a gentleman in bed.”

Christophe closed his eyes again when the doctor moved on to his hair. “Why did you say physically?” he ended up asking.

“Because Wendy fucked him to get back at that fatass and Bebe to get over Clyde.”

“What 'appened to Donovan? 'e die or somezing, because I don't care.”

Broflovski huffed. “But you still asked. No, he fell in love with another woman.”

“He cheated on her.”

“Probably. They’d been on and off since fourth grade, until Clyde proposed several years after high school. They were going to get married in the spring because Bebe wanted a June wedding, but a few weeks before the date, Clyde met someone else and he said he fell in love all over again but that this time it was the right one. He told us that after.”

“Sound stupid.”

“It probably is, but apparently she felt the same because they disappeared the week before, and all of the sudden, Bebe was stood up. She was devastated, of course. All she got was a note that said they were sorry.”

“And she went to Gregory?”

“I don't know. She never told me that part. I don't know whether it's to protect Gregory or to hide how heartbroken she was, but for a few years, they were just . . . they were just together. I think it was supposed to be fling or something with less meaning, but Bebe wanted more than the sex. She wanted him to love her like she already did.”

“And zat was when zey stopped.”

Broflovski actually laughed, doing his duty as a doctor to go as far as to rub his thumbs against Christophe's aching muscles. “You're so bad at this,” he said, shaking his head. “No. She got pregnant, with his child.”

Christophe looked at the doctor's face for any hint of a lie. “You're not lying.”

“Why would I?”

“She didn't keep it,” he guessed again, not answering that question.

Broflovski looked sad at that. “Yes and no,” he replied, just sitting on the side of the tub now. His clothes were a little wet now. “She wanted to keep it. She really did, because she thought it'd make him love her and they could have a family, but Gregory didn't. He didn't want anything to do with that child. He gave her a choice: get rid of it or keep it, but if she kept it, he wanted nothing to do with either of them.”

Neither of them spoke for a while.

“I helped her deliver the baby,” Broflovski continued after the water got cold, “a boy with shiny yellow hair and big blue eyes. One of the healthiest baby I've ever seen, and she named him Amadeus and gave him away. She didn't let any of us adopt him and gave up all rights to him, to even know about him. He should be almost four by now. So like that, everything went back to the way it was, except Bebe and Gregory never spoke about it. They're still good friends, but Gregory cut her off in the bedroom. And Bebe, Bebe is still kind of hoping that Gregory would love her like she does him.”

Christophe thought about Stevens and Gregory a little. He decided that Gregory would never love her.

“I know that,” Broflovski said, hearing that thought out loud. “It's the only reason I'm telling you all of this, doctor-patient confidentiality be damned just for this one instance.”

“Does eet matter, Broflovski?”

Broflovski stood up, taking a deep breath. “He won't ever love Bebe because the only person he would ever love that way is you,” the doctor said, heading out the bathroom. “Gregory doesn't hate children. He only wants them with you. He _only_ wants you.”

“Again, does zat matter?”

“It really does, Christophe. You ruined him when you left like that, and now you're back. He won't let you go, so he'll make sure to ruin you all the same. Why do you suppose he leaves you bruises and bites? Anyway, your skin is probably pruning by now, but stay in there until you think you dress yourself. I'll make you something to eat.”

Broflovski was gone, disappearing through the bedroom to the large living space where the kitchen was located, and Christophe was left alone to think about what was said. It made him wonder about a lot of things, but he couldn't find himself being afraid of being possessed by Gregory, a danger Broflovski had just warned him about. It was alright though, he knew Gregory would never love Stevens like that. Broflovski was right, and Christophe could only smile.

Time had made them very sick men.

When Christophe left the bath, he steadily wandered into the kitchen, not bothering to cover himself up in anything but a towel around his waist. He didn't even bother drying himself off, sitting at the counter with water dripping from his cleaned skin and hair. Broflovski ignored his state of dress, more of a friend at the moment than a doctor.

Out of all the questions Christophe could as after that conversation, he ended up asking where Donovan was now. If karma was a cunt to a man who ran off with another woman a week before he was supposed to get married.

Broflovski laughed again, this time sounding bittersweet. He spoke with his back to Christophe's careful eyes.

When Donovan and that woman— _Bonnie_ , Broflovski said with a snort—disappeared, they disappeared for a year. Everyone who knew them didn't hear from them, not a single peep, until Donovan, all of the sudden, moved back to South Park, his new wife in along the ride, and everyone was relieved that neither of them were dead but just as angry, angry at Donovan for hurting Stevens like that. But their anger diminished over time because Donovan told the truth, when he said he fell in love again the second time with the right one, because he was actually, _genuinely_ happy with his new wife, and everyone saw that, even Stevens. because they began to forgive him.

Donovan was a car salesman now, and Bonnie was an upcoming weather girl. They weren't as successful as McCormick or Stevens, but like Broflovski said, they were happy together. They had the happiness that made them seem as if they belonged in another world, and it was everyone else who stepped into the wrong one around them. Nobody would ever forget what they did to Stevens, but they let it go, even when they didn't want to, just this once. Bonnie and Clyde Donovan were expecting their first child in less than a year, and there were going to be a lot of people going back home to welcome it.

Listening to Broflovski, Christophe decided that Stevens should've kept Amadeus.

.

.

.

Christophe needed to tell Gregory to never host a dinner at the apartment ever again. Sure, it was much friendlier to invite business partners over for a nice, homemade meal as they discuss whatever shit they were getting into together, but there was the risk of said business partners coming back _uninvited_ , and looking not for the host but the host’s so-called cat.

“Valslake,” he said when he opened the door. There had only been a few people who even knocked on the door. The last person to do so was Stevens, and that was only the first time she came over. “What are you doing 'ere?”

“I have a proposition for you, Mole. I want to hire you.”

“And who do you want me to keel?”

“My father. Can I come in, for some privacy?”

Christophe grinned, leaning against the door. “Like 'ell am I going to let you in 'ere. Go find someone else to do your dirty work. If you 'avent’t noticed, _le Mole_ stop doing ‘its awhile ago.”

Valslake the younger gave Christophe an overly polite smile. “I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars.”

“No.”

“Two hundred.”

“I _said_ no.”

Christophe made to close the door, but Valslake put out his foot to stop him, his fake smile falling apart. This _boy_ was nothing like his father, the Frenchman thought. That bastard daughter, who wasn't even related to the mob boss, resembled that man more than Peter Valslake could ever hope to be.

It was odd that Christophe could still recall the look on the girl’s face when he killed her. She was the only daughter of Valslake’s second mistress who had an affair with one of the loyal guards assigned to protect her, to cage her because Valslake didn't allow what he deemed his property to have lives outside of him. The mistress was young when she fell into that role, an undocumented immigrant from Cuba who was brought in with the promise of a better life. She was apparently handpicked by Valslake himself among a shipment of young girls, not even women. Christophe didn't hear the rest of that story because he didn't really care. Itxaro was eleven years old, and he put a bullet between her eyes before dumping her body into the city dam. There was a making of a tragedy behind her birth, so it didn't matter her life ended like one.

“If you don't walk away now, I _will_ drop you off zis building,” Christophe said, unhesitatingly pressing the door hard against the younger Valslake’s outstretched foot.

“Listen to me, Mole,” Valslake continued, still trying. “I'll give you anything you want. The old man's past his time, and everything belongs to _me._ Anything, Mole, and I'll give it to you if you kill my father. He's nasty son of a bitch who hits his own wife. He doesn't care about anyone but himself.”

“And you don't? Don't make me laugh. Even if 'e’s ze nastiest price of shit in ze world, zat bastard girl still died. You're no better zan 'im or me, and I don't care if a man 'its his wife. I keeled a baby right out of ze womb once, and I _will_ keel you if you don't walk away.”

Valslake tried to push against Christophe's trained strength, failing as expected. “Take this chance, Mole,” he urged. “My father plans to double cross Yardale sooner or later. That's just what kind of person my father is.”

At that, Christophe stepped away from the door, letting go, and Valslake fell through the threshold and onto the floor. Before the boy could say another word, Christophe kicked Valslake right in the stomach, forcing the boy to double in pain on the floor. The Frenchman picked up Valslake up, carrying the mob son over his shoulder, and they were heading up to the roof.

Valslake couldn't respond properly, almost knocked unconscious by the blow. During the boy's state of pain, Christophe threw Valslake over the railing, his hands on the boy’s weak shoulders as he sat Valslake down with a firm hold.

Christophe waited until Valslake finally found himself over the edge, too high from the hard cement sidewalk below. “Do you want to die?” the former kill-for-hire asked, as if he was asking about the future.

Valslake was trembling, and Christophe heard the boy piss himself out of fear. “No!” he nearly screamed, clinging to the railing with his sweaty hands. Hands always get sweaty at the worst of times. “Don't kill me!”

“I won't. Not if you will do one zing.”

“Anything! Anything!”

The house cat grinned a tad too softly. “I want you,” he said slowly, leaning over the railing to speak right at Valslake’s ear, “to keel your fazer. I 'onestly don't care about what Gregory does wiz eizer of you, but I won't let you be dangerous. If you zink your fazer would do such a zing to _my whore_ , zen you need to make sure 'e doesn't do zat. Because I'll do worse zan drop you off 'ere. I don't fix problems. I did what I did because people like you paid. Cowards wiz money fat in ze pants zey can't keep on. Ever since I saw Valslake zat night, right 'ere in zis apartment, I wondered why I remember Itxaro Anton so vividly. Maybe eet’s because compared to you, she didn’t deserve to die, just like 'ow 'er mozer didn't deserve to become your fazer’s whore. 'e probably beat 'er too. Essn't eet funny 'ow similar your mozers were? Zey were nozing but trash to your fazer, and zeir children are no different _.”_

“So, Peter Valslake,” Christophe continued, pushing lightly to incite a fearful cry from the boy, “what are you going to do next?”

The boy was shaking too much now, stuttering as he tried to speak. He probably but his tongue once or twice before he mustered up a reply. “I— I’ll kill my father myself!” he cried out, bursting out in tears now. “Oh God!”

“'ow?”

“An accident! Make it look like a rival family did it! Please! Help me up!”

“Good, good, you're zinking now. And you will do zis, right? Promise, Valslake?”

“Yes! I promise! I promise!”

Christophe chuckled, pulling Valslake up from over the railing, and he dropped the boy onto the rooftop, letting the mob son curl up in a sobbing mess as his knees collapsed behneath him. Valslake smelt like piss.

“Don’t double cross me, Valslake,” Christophe said, walking away, “and don't come ‘ere wizout an invitation ever again.”

.

.

.

**Here's the article u wanted!ｖ(⌒ｏ⌒)ｖ**

**luvsfeed.com/fashion/nomsky/upcoming-fall-exclusive-with-fashionista-bebe-stevens**

**§ԾᴗԾ§§ԾᴗԾ§ What do u think???? §ԾᴗԾ§§ԾᴗԾ§**

**And don't forget wat u owe me! (^_-)-☆**

**shaut the fck up**

**dloin. when r u goign 2 kill tat jornalist?**

**soon enogh**

“Women should shut up,” Christophe said, getting tired of Stevens and Testaburger and their womanly antics.

The two women arrived at the apartment moments before Gregory left for work, each giving him a kiss goodbye on the cheek like the blond was a child, and they immediately forced Christophe to one of Stevens’ many designer stores in the city. The employees greeted them like VIPs and they had a private room to themselves, all articles of clothing from socks to ties at their disposal. It took them nearly three hours to decide on his outfit before they shoved him into a chauffeured blank Mercedes. Then they started _talking._

“You shut up, Christophe,” Stevens retorted. She was wearing a red party dress, exposing her smooth back like a window. Her long hair was wavy down to her lower back, brown highlighting here and there. “You need to loosen up and enjoy yourself. When was the last time you spent time outside the apartment doing people things?”

“I don't do people zings,” Christophe replied.

“Then what do you do?” Testaburger asked, raising an eyebrow. She inched closer to the Frenchman, dragging a finger down the collar of the red dress shirt the two decided for him. Her fingernails were painted blue, matching the gradiant color of her dress. “You must get bored, doing nothing.”

Christophe gave her a look, daring her to go any further than that. She was wearing a sweet perfume that was not overly powerful, but he didn't like that she smelled that way. He didn't like that she smelled like anything. He was too used to the lack of it like all those times he came near here when they were younger. But his dislike for her perfume made him notice, because he needed a better distraction, that she too had become an attractive woman, mature, and older to match the kind of personality that nobody else had at the age of ten.

“I read,” he answered, looking out the dark tinted windows. “And watch shitty soap operas.”

Stevens laughed at that. “Those are the most normal people things I can imagine you doing,” she commented, “especially the soap operas.”

Testaburger laughed too, leaning against her best friend in agreement. “We should subscribe Christophe to some fashion magazines,” she suggested. Then she paused for a moment. “Have you done anything with Gregory? Outside the apartment I mean.”

Christophe shrugged. “What ze fuck would we even do?” he answered with a question. “Travel? I've already seen ze whole world from ze bottom of ze gutters, and Gregory isn't interested. Stupid dates around ze city like some love sick puppies? _No_.”

“So not even a date?” Stevens asked.

Christophe resisted rolling his eyes at that being the only thing taken from what he said.

“So how do you know Gregory loves you?” Testaburger asked. Ah, Christophe didn't realize; she must know everything that happened between Stevens and Gregory, just like Broflovski did, because they were best friends.

Stevens looked curious, though she tried not to show it, but her feelings were betrayed when she grabbed onto Testaburger’s silently offered hand between them.

“I don't,” Christophe said, looking away. Neither of them knew he knew. “But I know ‘e hasn't fucked anyone else. I'd smell it off of ‘im, strong perfume, strong alcohol. Anyzing zat isn't coffee or sweat. And ‘e would always tell me when 'e is coming back late and why. I never ask, but ‘e always tells me. ‘e cooks for me, food I never ask for, but I eat, whezer I like ze dish or not. And 'e’s always 'olding me, even when I tell 'im to stop. 'e’s like a clingy wife.”

He would never realize, while speaking of his blond lover at that moment, he had such a soft expression on his already aging face with a quiet kind of smile.

The car stopped then, arriving at their first destination, _White Moon,_ a five star restaurant with an open view of uptown New York. They wined and dined there, Stevens and Testaburger gossiping over celebrities and famous mutual friends, talking about things Christophe didn't care for. He just sat and listened, minding his manners at the table because he knew how to conduct himself on the right setting. It was one of the things he'd picked up over the year. He tried not to remember who he learned it from—he left a lot of memories in France.

And it wasn't long until dinner was over and they were heading to the next place, an old, established club that had a line from the door to one more side of the block, and the block was large enough already. The car stopped right at the entrance, and Stevens waved to one of the bouncers, a large brown man who wrapped an arm around her in delighted greetings.

“Hey, Lukey!” she said happily as she returned the gesture. “How's your night going?”

Luckey, the bouncer, was smiling. “Very good, Baby,” he replied. “I want to thank you for that gift. My wife absolutely loves it. She thinks she fits no colors right, but when she wore that green, she cried.”

Stevens looked happy when she heard that. “I'm glad! Tell me whenever she wants more. I'd love for her to wear my designs.”

“Thank you, thank you, Baby. You staying long tonight?” Lukey reached over for the end of the velvet rope and pulled it open for the three of them.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Stevens said, walking in. Testaburger gave the bouncer a smile in thanks while Christophe gave the other man a nod in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Lukey!”

Once in the club, Christophe found it to be stuffy and warm, both the crowd and the suit he was wearing. There are tables every few feet with too many people sitting on them, drinking and laughing, their sound and smell mixing together in synthesia, the crowded voices clogging his nose like a cold and the collective smell of sweat and body fluids hitting him like sound waves too hard to ignore. The body heat was already sleeping under his clothes, urging him to strip off his jacket and unbutton his shirt halfway.

Testaburger did it for him. “Sexy is the scene here, Christophe,” she told him, her blue fingers almost ripping his shirt open.

She bit her bottom lip at the sight of his exposed chest, and the women dragged him to the bar. Stevens picked up two shots from the bar, handing one to Testaburger. Neither of them drank it, but instead, they tipped it into Christophe's mouth one at a time, some of the vodka dripping down his jaw and neck. He didn't resist their offerings.

“I’m going to get you drunk,” Stevens promised, picking up a shot for herself. She downed it with a laugh.

“You’ll die before zen,” Christophe said, letting out a snort. His tongue felt a little numb.

All three of them took a series of shots, three for the women and two extra for Christophe. He felt very warm by now, unable to process his state before the two women dragged him away from the drinks and onto one of dancefloors. They started to dance, club dancing, grinding their bodies against Christophe who stood there like an idiot for one moment. Their hands pressed against him, feeling him up, and Testaburger giggled when she felt just how solid he was, how strong he could be. Stevens’ hands started to slide down his pants, coming up from behind him. A few clubbers around them cheered, seeing the obvious display of sexual interest, and a crowd started to form around them, hands that were neither just white or female adding into the mix.

Christophe wasn't sure how long he’d remained in that crowd, but he knew how to move his body too, just like the skinny woman with the large afro did, so much control over his hips as his hands started to explored to. He grabbed Stevens by the wrist and turned her around, pressing against her this time, and he caressed her with his thumbs giving a little more pressure. He heard her moan when he slipped under her dress and pinched her. She started to pressed her ass against him, and Christophe felt himself get hard.

But then he caught someone else’s eyes through the crowd, framed with short, nut brown hair and just as brown eyes. A year hit Christophe like he slammed into a brick wall, and he drew away from Stevens, passing her off to the closest clubber. The former hit-for-hire made his way towards a younger man barely old enough to drink, wearing tight clothes and a bit of eyeliner and glitter on his face. He was pretty, and small, petite. A _twink._

“Vat’s your name,” Christophe said, his accent slipping into Russian. The twink was giving him a suggestive look, smiling coyishly.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” the twink replied, touching Christophe’s chest. He thumbed at Christophe’s erect nipple, moving in light circles.

 _Cherie._ “Vat’s your name.”

The twink frowned a little, crossing his arms. “Jamie.”

Christophe thought how this someone else was a lot different than he wanted. “Close enough. I vant to fuck you, Jamie, _hard,”_ he continued, whispering closely to Jamie’s ear. “I vant to make you scream and cry. I vant to make you beg for me.”

Jamie let out a hot breath, arousal in his eyes. “My place’s a block away,” he replied, pulling Christophe with him by his shirt with a heavy grip.

For the rest of the night, though inebriated, Christophe remembered having a lapful of a brunette twink, both of them falling into a twin size mattress in a room only twice the size of the island kitchen. He remembered the clothes being stripped away in the dark, holding someone smaller than him for the first time in more than a year, before his recent move to New York City. He remembered having his dick in someone, the warm feeling around him almost searing, kissing unfamiliar lips that moaned out an all too familiar name. He remembered pretending that instead of a flat chest, there were a pair of fair colored breast like a woman’s, soft and wonderful to hold in his hands. He remembered wanting to see bright brown eyes and a beautiful smile.

He didn't remember saying her name.

.

.

.

Christophe woke up in a room that was dark and homely, too many things covering the dark brown walls and just as many things on the black carpet floor. The bed was too small, cramped for two grown men if they weren't soloing each other. The blanket was thick but small, their legs sticking out to the cold morning air. In natural light, Christophe could see how Jamie could not compare, his hair looking a little blond and his lips thinner.

He slipped out of the bed, not caring if he woke Jamie up, because he was leaving. Christophe went looking for his clothes, throwing in a pile by the bed, and his things. He looked through his phone. He had thirteen missed calls and a few text messages, the latter all from Stevens.

**Christophe, where are u???? (⋟﹏⋞)**

**Gregory’s going 2 kill me! Please pick up!**

**(;﹏;)(;﹏;)(;﹏;) Please b careful.**

**Call Wendy if u need help!!!**

The last text had a number that belonged to Testaburger, but Christophe didn't need anything. He just needed to go back to the apartment so he could sleep in a better bed with more space. This room felt wrong, too lived to be safe. He saved Testaburger's number though.

Jamie was stirring as Christophe left the bedroom, closing the door without caring if the other heard him or not, and the Frenchman started walking, keeping an eye out for a taxi. He managed to get one two blocks away, close by the club. In the morning, it was emptying out, groups of two or three people getting home after a while night of partying.

His phone rang as he got in the taxi, telling the driver the address of the apartment, and he closed the little screen between them, not knowing how he was speaking too. “What?” he said, leaning against the rolled up window.

_“Where are you? You disappeared last night."_

“Stop being nosy, woman.”

 _“Don't talk to_ **_me_ ** _like that, Christophe. I'm not Gregory.”_

“And I'm not your pussy of a 'usband. Why are you calling me?”

There was an angry silence on the other side. _“Bebe’s worried,”_ Testaburger answered, sounding calm. _“Where are you anyway?”_

“None of your business, Testaburger. I don't know you well, but I know zis isn't a fucking courtesy call. Why are you calling me?”

_“Hmmph! Excuse me if I want to make sure you don't disappear again like last time. I don't know if Bebe or I can support a heartbroken Gregory again. Why did you left, I'll never know, but don't make it our problem, Christophe, not again.”_

“Oh? I zink you’ve supported Gregory fine enough wizout me.”

_“I know you know you can play with him better than any of us can. You have that man’s heart in the palm of your hands, and you just love that fact, don't you? Don't argue with me, DeLorn. The next time you leave him, make sure you kill him first.”_

Christophe chuckled with amusement. “Is zat a 'it you want to 'ire me for?”

 _“I can pay you a million dollars, but you won't do it because you two are sickening. You won't kill him because you_ **_love_ ** _him. I might even think you're obsessed with him.”_

“I'm not.”

 _“But he is, with you. You wouldn't believe how much effort he put in getting you back. He_ —"

“What do you mean by zat?” Christophe raised in question. Something was off about that statement. Oh. “He set up zat bait, didn't he? Zat job to scare me and make me run to ‘is door like a fucking dog. Zat _bastard._ ”

Testaburger was silent again, this time contemplative. _“Yes, he did.”_

Christophe wasn't sure how he felt, but he was sure that he supposed to be angry, quite angry, because fucking Gregory of the shiitiest Yardale played a trick on him, setting all those inconsistencies and actors like piece on a board.

“You know 'ow 'e did it,” he stated, moving on.

 _“We heard about the things you did,”_ she said, _“and we sent people to find you, but you were never there. When I told him that you couldn't be found but hire, he did just that. He set up an entire story, just in case you cared enough, and you did. It worked.”_

“I care enough to not want to die.”

_“And out the frying pan into fire. There are worse things than death, Christophe.”_

“'ere I zought you liked Gregory.”

_“. . . I do, but he's changed the last decade. He told me he had an entire future planned with you, and he pretty much scrapped all of that when you left. He said he'd have waited ten, twenty, fifty years if you said you'd come back. You didn't, so he made new plans. You left him with nothing, so he decided to make up for that in a bad way.”_

“And you followed 'im?”

Testaburger laughed. _“I love Gregory, but I married Eric, who's making the wholesome dealings. I, however, am an information broker for the highest bidder now. Very few people feel threatened by an American woman who speaks broken German. We just happened to end up in the same direction, and we're both very good at it.”_

“Zen why were ze boz of you zere at ze dinner wiz ze Valslakes?”

 _“Valslake doesn't deal with_ **_unchauffered_ ** _women. It's a hassle, but it doesn't matter now. The agreement was already made.”_

“Peter Valslake says zat 'is fazer will double-cross Gregory.”

_“Obviously.”_

“So 'e’s going to keel 'is fazer and become ze next boss.”

There was a moment of surprised silence. _“How do you know that?”_

“I dangled 'im from ze rooftop until 'e said so. Sell zat to ze 'ighest bidder, Testaburger. I want a cut for zat.”

_“You son of a bitch. Don't you know how long it took to even get Valslake to talk with us? We needed his connection in Miami. Fuck you, Christophe.”_

Christophe laughed. “Eet’s fine. I'm sure you'll fix eet some’ow. I trust you're zat good at what you do.”

Testaburger scoffed. _"_ _You better hope I am. Anyway, where were did you go last night? Bebe's been texting me all morning.”_

“None of your business.”

_“Sure. I just hope you didn't do anything stupid, like hook up with someone else.”_

Christophe shrugged, even though she couldn't see him.

 _“You did, didn't you?_ **_What the fuck, Christophe?_ ** _Okay, no, nevermind. Just shut up and listen to me. Don't go back to the apartment. Don't text him. Don't call him. Don't answer his calls. Let me and Bebe talk him down first before you go back. He's going to be very pissed off when he finds out. Why did you do that? No, no, don't answer that. I have a private jet. I need you to get on that jet and stay quiet for a while.”_

“Why?” Christophe didn't like her tone.

 _“_ ** _Because you slept with someone else! I said not to question me, you scheißkopf! Just get on that fucking jet and stay fucking quiet, Christophe!_ ** _And don't come back until I say so. He's going to go ballistic when he finds out, and I don't know if you care about whoever you fucked with last night, but Gregory_ **_will_ ** _find out. When you hang up, turn off your phone and keep it turned off. I can't let you fall weak and text him back.”_

“Ze ride ees over.”

Testaburger was quiet for a moment, and Christophe didn't get out of the taxi yet, for her sake. He wanted to hear what she had to say, if she could change his mind. The Frenchman was sure as hell not afraid of that stupid bitch or whatever he could do.

_“Christophe, please.”_

The taxi left, and Christophe was in that private jet with only a phone turned off until further notice and the clothes on his back.

.

.

.

“Home sweet home, right?” Broflovski asked dryly as they ride into their hometown in some red car with a Detroit license plate. “When was the last time you were here?”

“Almost two years,” Christophe answered. “Still looks like a shit show.”

Broflovski laughed half heartedly. “Yup,” he quietly agreed.

“Where am I staying anyway? Did Testaburger plan zat out too?”

“Stan's place. His parents moved to California a few years ago when Shelly—his sister—got a job in Silicon Valley, and they gave the house to him. He lets me stay whenever I visit.”

Christophe glanced over at Broflovski to see any sign of flattering. “What does 'e do now?”

“Mechanic, with Craig Tucker. This is actually a good time to come back home, since the baby’s due anytime now. Everyone’s coming back home to see.”

“Donovan, right? I hope eet eesn't as ugly as 'e ees.”

“It's a good thing Bonnie's pretty, and smart.”

The both of them laughed at that shot at Donovan.

“I already called Stan,” Broflovski continued, “and he's kind of excited to see you. Not a lot of our classmates come back to town these days, so seeing a familiar face is nice. I can't stay too long this time, but I'll be back next week, sooner if the baby comes early.”

They pulled up into an empty driveway, being near noon. Broflovski turned off the engine, and the two exited the car, Christophe following him towards the door. The Jew had his own set of keys to the house, handing it to Christophe when it opened. The Frenchman slipped it into his pocket.

“Give it back to me when Stan gets you another spare,” the doctor said, walking in as if this was his own house. He came here enough times, as a kid and an adult, to at least pretend it was. “I'll show you to the guest room, but then I have to leave. I only managed to get half a day off on such a short notice. Stan’ll be back in a couple hours. Do you need any money?”

Christophe shrugged, coming in as well. The place looked very lived in, a couch in front of a TV and mostly filled bookshelves. “I 'ave whatever's in my wallet,” he answered. “and my mozer 'as ze rest.”

Broflovski gave him an odd look, confused by that statement, but he didn't ask, shaking his head. They walked upstairs, and he showed Christophe into the first room to the left. “It used to be Shelly’s room,” he explained.

It was a room, pretty empty but personalized, Christophe could tell. The bedsheets were a red plaid, and there was a desk that had available plugs on it. There was a closest as well, half-filled with clothes. Broflovski walked into it, picking out some thick clothings and throwing them into the bed.

“Since neither of us know how long you're going to be here,” Broflovski continued on, “you should go shopping. Wear these for now and go to the stores when you're warmed up. You know how South Park is in the fall. Shower’s at the end of the hall.”

“Yeah,” Christophe said, picking up the clothes. He caught the green towel thrown at him. “You talk too much, like ze women.”

Broflovski rolled his eyes. “You're welcome,” he said instead. “If you need anything, call me. You have my number, right?”

Christophe recited the ten digits, throwing his phone onto the desk none too gentle.

“Alright, then I'm going then. Maybe next time you'll tell me why you're here. See you soon, Christophe.”

Christophe shrugged, heading towards the shower at the end of the hall as Broflovski headed downstairs. He heard the soft starting of the engine as he started the shower. He stood beneath the cold water as he pulled his clothes off, throwing his wallet onto the floor.

Broflovski's clothes were too long and too thin on Christophe, the pants going past his ankles like childish pajamas and the shirt tight around his chest and biceps. They were comfortable enough, however, and Christophe worn worse than clothes that didn't fit him entirely. He picked up his wallet, his clothes thrown in an empty basket, and put on the thick jacket. It looked familiar being orange and everything. It had too many pockets for a winter coat.

After he had become comfortable in Broflovski's clothes, Christophe headed downstairs, hearing another key slowly turning the front door open. The new person was surprised to see him, but she wasn't exactly new. She had blonde hair, more cute than pretty, and she looked young, younger than what Christophe usually dealt with. She did look familiar, but Christophe couldn't connect any faces from the past to hers. He noticed a diamond ring on her finger, something small but there.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, immediately shy. She closed the door, putting her things down, and offered her hand. “You must be Christophe. You probably don't remember me, but I'm Ruby, Craig’s sister?”

Ah, that fucker.

Christophe gave her nod rather than a hand in return, which she picked up because she pulled her hand back. Her body language became awkward, unsure about how to act in front of her brother’s former classmate. “Uhm, I'll give Stan and Craig a heads up that you're here,” she said, trying to deafen the silence in the room. She headed towards the kitchen. “Did you have lunch yet? I was planning to make Alfredo pasta if you'd like some.”

Christophe watched her carefully. “I'm going to buy some clozes first,” he said, trying to be polite. He wanted to just walk out, but even he thought it wasn't the best idea to disrespect his most gracious hosts. “I'll come back later. Zanks.”

Ruby said something in the line of, “Okay,” before Christophe walked out with a weak wave. As he walked down the street, if he recalled correctly to where the stores were in this fuck God forsaken town, the former mercenary could help but there.

Broflovski, that poor, poor bastard.

.

.

.

When Marsh and Tucker got a heads-up that Christophe was back in town, the entire town found out less than a day because I'm mediately, everyone who was everyone back then called him out whenever they saw him walk around South Park. Marsh was, as Broflovski said, kind of excited to see another familiar face, and on the one day of the week he had a day off from the garage, the former quarterback dragged Christophe to see _all_ the familiar faces from the past. Christophe learned a lot about the last decade in that one day.

McCormick was right about Tucker and Tweak, about being normal and shit. Tucker was looking quite good, grown up into an actual manwith toned arms and an attractive face that would've gotten him plenty of bitches and hoes if he wasn't with that spaz who was still a spaz but not as much these days. Apparently, he got really good with cars in trade school, and his business with Marsh was running very smoothly.

And it seemed that Tweak had toned down from the coffee intake since he took over his parents’ shop. The blond also cleaned up, fully buttoning his shirts now, and added a brown cardigan to his skinny—probably very prone to the cold—body. He was taller than Tucker, his lanky figure grown upward to make up for his thin stature. He had stopped shaking as much, and could actually say a sentence without stuttering.

The two married a month after high school.

Then there were the Williams, Token and Nicole, the two lovebirds from elementary school that apparently made it out alright with each other despite their breaks during college. They'd become very attractive people, successful in their own fields. Token became a chemist like his mother, and Nicole a marine biologist. They had moved to Seattle a few years ago, but they arrived back in town the next Friday for the baby.

As for Donovans, Christophe hoped Broflovski was right, about the baby taking after its mother because Bonnie sure was beautiful in her own way, glowing from her swollen abdomen and smiling very prettily while reporting on next week’s weather. Christophe was reminded of a man he encountered in Rome, who smiled just that way. Very beautiful, indeed. Clyde, on the other hand, seemed to have aged faster than expected—as if his beautiful and young wife fed off his life, and rounder—but he was happy, looking like a Santa Claus junior and laughing almost too joyously as he offered Christophe a good deal on any car at the lot he worked at.

There was Scotch and McCormick too. Christophe found out that the kid, gullible and naive with the under-compensating parents who had the amount of sense raising a child as Bigfoot, he was sort of famous too, a traveling blogger who'd be gone a few weeks at a time. He had also been featured in several articles for _National Geographics_ and _The L.A. Times._ And McCormick, of course, was a model, except a lot bigger than Christophe was told because that poor kid who used to live next to the train tracks had been in _Vogue, Sports Illustrated,_ and other fashion magazines, milking that bad boy personality hard. Neither would be home until after the Donovan baby arrived.

There were a few others too. Jimmy Valmer became a comedian with growing roles in Hollywood. Timmy Burch was touring as the lead singer in the band _Sex on Wheels._ Heidi Turner was a leading engineer at NASA. Kevin Stoley and Peter Mullen were writers for some sci-fi show. There were a lot of other people too, but Christophe didn't bother to find out because he stopped pretending to care at some point.

Christophe was doing fine back in South Park, though it was unexpected and unwanted because he didn't want to come here in the first place. What the fuck was taking Testaburger so long to get back to him? He had a hit in process, and this could set him back a few months. This better not be payback for Valslake.

Either way, like back in New York in that apartment, Christophe didn't have to worry about much. The very idea of rent was refused by Marsh in the get-go, especially when Broflovski come back and offered money, but any money the Frenchman had was used very sparingly, not because he had to but because he didn't need to use it. Ruby, the ever caring kindergarten teacher, made enough food for the three of them, four if Broflovski was staying over. Two more if Tucker and Tweak came over for dinner.

Christophe ignored the looks of pain in Broflovski's stupid face whenever Marsh and Ruby were close, looking at each other with happy, shiny eyes.

By the end of the month, everyone in town welcomed Dorothy Donovan into the world, tiny and smart, and Christophe eyed the help wanted sign on the boxing club window. He needed something to do with his time now that the world had been pretty much explored and small.

“You okay?” Marsh asked, sitting out in the cold on the front steps one night when Christophe wanted to take a smoke. The mechanic handed the Frenchman a beer. “Had a lot changed?”

Christophe sucked in a breath, mixing nicotine with the oxygen he was breath into his lungs. He opened the beer can, taking a sip after he exhaled. “No,” he answered curtly. “All ze old people are gone or dead, and ze young ones are growing old. Too 'appy and domestic. Eet makes me sick.”

Marsh had the humor to laugh, drinking his beer. “It seems very different,” he agreed, “and it feels very different just the same. Do you ever miss it, when we were younger?”

Christophe huffed, crushing the butt of his cigarette against the cold, wet snow. “What's ze to miss?” he asked. “You can't bring ze dead back to life and you can't grow young. Stupid zought, Marsh. Be 'appy wiz what you got and move ze fuck on. Nobody needs to start zinking about being young again.”

“Yeah, you're right, but . . . but do you ever think you did something wrong and made a mistake?”

Christophe stopped, throwing a glance at Marsh who sounded very regretful but the expression was missing on his face. “No.”

Marsh smiled flatly. “I do,” he confessed with no prompt, but Christophe chose to stay quiet. “I think I made a mistake a long time ago. Actually, that's kind of funny, a long time ago. We're only _almost_ thirty, but I guess _almost_ ten years is a pretty long time. I still think about it though, about what I did wrong, but I can't remember what I did. I think I forgot something about someone, but I _can't_ remember. It's weird. You know about my . . .”

“Brain damage,” Christophe finished.

Marsh nodded. “Yeah, that. When I woke up, I knew I forgot some things, like how my fifteenth birthday party went. I just remember how I felt about it. It was one of the best I've ever had. And then there was college. I dropped out after that, you know. My head won't let me think too hard so I can't do a lot of math and I forgot stuff, but my hands came out okay. That's why I'm a mechanic now. I think I remember what it was like to run while trying to catch the ball, but I can't do it anymore. It's frustrating, but I'm doing okay. When I came home, I thought I was going to end up in one of those special need places, but South Park’s pretty supportive, surprisingly. Like did we really do all those things? Fighting Canada and Saddam Hussein? Was that red thing really the Devil, and was his kid in my fourth grade class?”

Christophe didn't respond, partly because he'd asked those questions before. Everything should've be impossible— _fiction—_ but once in a while, the former hit-for-hire was sure they did happen, all of it. Funny thing was that everything seemed simpler back then.

Marsh leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the darkness of a new moon in the sky. “And I'm pretty sure I forgot about something important about someone, though, after I woke up,” he continued, “but it's been eight years since and I can't seem to name it, even when I try. I kind of noticed a little too late that life kept going, so I moved on. For some reason, thinking about it makes me sad, but look at me now, I'm going to marry my girlfriend of five years and my hands are going to feed and shelter our kids.”

“Disgusting, Marsh. ‘ow did you end up fucking Tucker’s sister?” Christophe asked.

Marsh gave him a hard shove, but the Frenchman was not phased by that attempt. “She came over often when Craig and I was planning the shop, and we just . . . we just started talking. I think she reminded me of someone, but the name's always at the top of my tongue.”

“What does she 'ave zat made you a bitch?”

“Jesus, Christophe. I guess I liked that she was in the high school basketball team. I played football, but I like basketball more for some reason.”

Christophe wanted to throw himself under the ice at Stark’s Pond because he couldn't get over how fucking _tragic_ this was. If he ever decided to write a novel, this would be the shit that would sell like cocaine at an American import.

“What about you?” Marsh asked, taking Christophe from a moment of self-loathing because he was getting sick of this town, and the people. “I know we didn't talk much back at school, but I know nobody comes back home unless you're settling or running away. What happened to you, Christophe?”

The Frenchman really took a minute to think this question over, not because he was into this conversation with Marsh. But he supposed he should confess something too, because Marsh had been a good host. Europe would be singing his and Ruby’s praises for how they've treated and provided him the past few weeks, when he was more stranger than friend.

“I'll probably forget,” Marsh then said, offering a chance to say something interesting. “I'm heading to bed soon, Ruby tells me that I tend to forget things right before sleeping.”

Christophe clicked his tongue against his cheek, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it up. He left his half empty beer can in the snow beside his feet. “I married a woman, in France,” he started, blowing out an ashy breath. “ _Cherie._  A very pretty woman. She ‘ad brown ‘air and eyes.”

“Like you,” Marsh commented.

“Not like me. I'm dirt. She was soil, and I was in love. She 'ad a pretty laugh, and smiled like lavender and roses. She smelled like spring. She danced. She was a ballerina.”

“A ballerina.”

“Yes. I saw 'er perform once, in a shit zeatre, and I proposed a week later. She laughed, zought I was crazy, and I was. It took another week for 'er to say yes. We were married in a church because she was a good Catholic woman.”

“And what happened to her, Christophe?”

Christophe finished this cigarette and pulled out another one. “She 'ad a ‘ard labor. Ze soil was too zin, and nothing grew out right. I 'ad a daughter for two minutes before I lost my wife too.”

Marsh was silent for a moment, as if he needed to think a little less. He looked over his shoulder to the chain smoker, now on his fifth cigarette of the hour. “What was her name?”

Christophe moved onto his sixth, his fingertips growing colder. “Madeline Sauveterre, after 'er mozer.”

They sat in the dark for another hour, and Marsh got up, patted Christophe on the shoulder before taking shelter from the cold. The former husband and father stayed out for another two smokes before he went in.

The next morning, Marsh didn't say anything about the night before, and Christophe never mentioned France again.

.

.

.

“Wendy told me what you did,” McCormick said, the both of them sitting at Tweek’s coffee shop. It had been renovated, looking like an actually café rather than only a stop-and-go. There was actually employees besides the son of the previous owner. “And for that, I'll give you an extension on that lawyer, mostly because I can't believe you did _that_."

Christophe scoffed, drinking his cappuccino. McCormick was drinking Pepsi. “Not all of us are serious monogamists,” he said. “What ees eet to you?”

McCormick looked a little uncomfortable. “Probably didn't think you had the balls to do it. Cheat on Yardale, I mean. Not after everything you put him through.”

“Boo-fucking-ho,” Christophe mocked, getting a little tired of hearing that sentiment. “What I do wiz zat beetch ees my own business.”

McCormick laughed, crossing his arms. “You're such a fucking asshole, DeLorn. I guess I don't really care. Just don't fuck things up too much with him. He provides me my side job. But still, you should be careful. He's been really focused on making it big, and with you back in the picture, I think he might want to go bigger, create a legacy or something.”

“Ze concern ees unnecessary, McCormick. 'e can deal wiz 'is problem 'imself. I don't plan to become 'is pet no matter 'ow much 'e calls me zat.”

“You planning on going back to the murder business?”

“I don't plan to stay in one place for too long.”

“Two years is kind of long for that sentiment, DeLorn.”

“What I do ees my business and mine alone.”

McCormick laughed again, as if he didn't believe that.

.

.

.

“Christophe?” Ruby called from behind the door of the guest room. She knocked on it in polite respect. “It's Kyle. He wants to talk to you.”

Christophe got up from the bed and opened the door. The younger woman handed him the house phone and went back downstairs to give him privacy. “What?” he asked, wanting to go to bed.

 _“You can come back now,”_ Broflovski said, as if giving him permission.

“Fucking finally,” Christophe said, looking for his phone. He turned it back on, seeing all those missed calls and unread text message, most from Gregory. Stevens only tried at the beginning. He wasn't going to take any of the clothes he bought back with him. He'll tell Ruby to donate it before he left.

_“Wendy said it not to do it again. She and Bebe had a hard time stopping him from pulling in favors for petty revenge.”_

“And 'ere I zought zey were worried about me.” Christophe said that in fake teasing, wanting to flip her off. “Zought zey were worried 'e'd 'it me.”

Broflovski laughed bitterly. _“No, bruises aren't permanent. He'd tattoo a tag on you like some sort of pet.”_

“Paranoid.”

 _“Possessive,”_ he corrected. _“Just don't do it again, okay? Wendy had to extend her stay in New York, and Cartman wasn't happy. I swear to God if you ruin their marriage, I'll strangle with your own belt.”_

“Oh, 'usband’s jealous of an old fuck buddy? Cry me a river, Broflovski.”

_“Cartman hates Bebe too, Christophe.”_

“So ze fatman is also possessive.”

_“If only. Remember Bebe’s son? Cartman wanted to adopt him, but Bebe said no and gave him away.”_

Christophe nearly laughed at that. “Ze fatman can't make children? No surprise zere.”

_“It’s Wendy who can't.”_

Christophe paused for a moment, not expecting much of that. It was a shame, really, about Testaburger. She would've had intelligent children, but there she was, barren, and the pitiful one was the fat ass who married her. He didn't understand why Broflovski told him this.

“When ees my ride?” he asked, deciding to not think about anyone else right now.

 _“I'm heading your way, actually,”_ Broflovski answered. _“Wendy said to get back as soon as possible. You ready to come home?”_

.

.

.

The apartment was silent, and dark. It was clustered with worthless pieces of paper and stacks upon stacks of books. There wasn't many personal items, but it didn't matter to Christophe. All he needed was the rope in his hands.

He waited quietly in the late hours before midnight. He was really good at that, and he was very good at finding things, things like files that weren't needed but still needed to be disposed. He knew how to use computers too, breaking into it and deleting anything he deemed too important to outlive its owner. He found her recordings too.

It didn't come soon enough when the lock turning announced that she was home, flicking on the light as she closed her door. It was too late before she noticed that there was that stranger from all those months ago. She actually didn't even recognize him, of that meeting at her favorite café a distant memory, of that warning he gave her.

Christophe recognized that look of seeing a stranger in your own home, because he'd been that stranger many times, and like many times before, he threw a punch right at Nomsky’s stomach before she could make a sound, shutting off the lights before it stayed on long enough for the neighbors to see.

She was gasping for air now, doubled over, but she had some desire to live in her, trying for the door. But Christophe caught her by the neck with the rope in his hands, pulling at it to crush her trachea as he pulled her to his chest, his arms crossed on her back. She was struggling, sinking her teeth at his neck, but her cry of desperation was muffled, the pain inflicted too full to hurt.

He didn't stop when she did; he pulled ten seconds longer than necessary, feeling she was no longer breathing and her heart stopped beating. Her body was limp in his arms, and he dropped her softly onto the floor, not wanting to make any more noise. He took her by the wrist, and he felt nothing.

Like a thief, Christophe went through her things, letting paper fall and stepping in the pages of her books. He took everything out of her navy blue bag. On the screen of her laptop was a picture of her and her little sister, and he broke it in half, taking the hard drive along with the one he ripped out of her computer, putting both of them in her bag. He was taking it with him.

He went into her small kitchen and rifled through her cutlery and utensils, which wasn't many but enough to make a mess. He went into her small bedroom, ripping posters and pictures, making it look like a rushed and spiteful job, throwing her beddings into the floor and pulling the mattress off a little. He went through her drawers and closest, taking jewelry, leaving one earring form a pair behind. She had very few valuables, and Christophe took all of it.

It was a quick job to end, a long one to start, but what was done was done. Sneaking out of the apartment, he sent a text.

**call gregory tomorow decemt lawyre**

He walked several blocks away from Nomsky’s apartment, handing the orange parka he was wearing to a homeless man, hiding the shoulder bag under his shirt. The darkness was enough to hide his features and the reason he was crouching, disgusting his voice as Southern. Then he stopped at a bright blue box that people used to put letters and packages in, painted over to seal its usefulness up. He had discovered this particular box wasn't completely shut, the handle pulled down enough to slip in a small bag. He kept the hard drives, and got a taxi to drive towards the way he was walking, throwing the driver two twenties not to ask any questions or talk.

.

.

.

There was another article about McCormick again, this one including an update about his New York lawyer. The model was aquited because his mugging attempt on the now dead journalist was months before, despite how McCormick was the only person to ever threaten her.  It was a sad day for avid readers of Luvsfeed and fans of Nomsky. The update included Gregory's announcement that he had earned enough from this case that he was retiring from the justice system. 

Now the apartment on the 23rd floor was covered in plastic, Christophe leaning out over the railings as he smoked one last cigarette there. Gregory was moving to an estate outside of the city. St. Claire's, he told Christophe, and nothing from this apartment was coming with him. 

"Gregory," the hit-for-hire said, speaking to the voicemail of a phone he left on the coffee table, "I'm leaving you again. Wait for me."

One sentence, and Christophe hung up and slowly finished his cigarette. 

**Author's Note:**

> (a short bio about this fic: 
> 
> I started this about two years ago, and just finished it. It did not start out like this. It was supposed to be wholesome. Christophe was supposed to come back and rebuild his life from the ground up, and Gregory was supposed to be a supportive lover who was still in love. The setting of the apartment, the bathroom and the island kitchen ended up being the only things that remained from the original idea, something I can barely recall now. 
> 
> But then it ended up like this, pretty much a jagged jumble with the feeling that a lot of moments are missing, and there was no going back. I never expected to be this long, much less how easy it was . . . 
> 
> So here's to this fic, y'all. May it rest in pieces.)


End file.
